


A Touch of Darkfic

by VagrantWriter



Series: Reader Requests [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Ableist Language, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Beating, Bladder Control, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Femdom, Genderswap, High School, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Medical Kink, Original Character Death(s), Physical Abuse, Police, Public Humiliation, Serial Killers, Sexual Slavery, Slaves, Torture, Watersports, fake!fempreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2016-05-02
Packaged: 2018-05-25 01:57:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 18
Words: 28,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6175846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VagrantWriter/pseuds/VagrantWriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>More twisted reader requests and prompts.</p><p>Ch. 1 Quickening: Rawley and Reek do some family planning.<br/>Ch. 2 Recording: Ramsay runs a successful website.<br/>Ch. 3 Revolting: Someone comes between Ramsay and his Reek.<br/>Ch. 4 Initiating: Ramsay and the Boys teach Theon an afterschool lesson.<br/>Ch. 5 Tearing in Two: Theon is torn between two masters.<br/>Ch. 6 Tearing into: Theon reaps the rewards of his disobedience.<br/>Ch. 7 Reacting: Ramsay has a gun and Theon doesn't want to die.<br/>Ch. 8 Trembling: Reek ruins a banquet and Ramsay is only too happy to punish him.<br/>Ch. 9 Holding: Ramsay wants Reek to hold it.<br/>Ch. 10 Rerecording: Ramsay's website continues to draw viewers.<br/>Ch. 11 Seeing: Not-Theon/Not-Quite-Reek is alone with his demons.<br/>Ch. 12 Changing: Ramsay changes his plans.<br/>Ch. 13 Confessing: An unconventional crossover.<br/>Ch. 14 (S)Mothering: Theon wants his mother, but Reek has no mother.<br/>Ch. 15 Showering: Reek gets a shower.<br/>Ch. 16 Tending: Myranda watches Reek while Ramsay is away.<br/>Ch. 17 Watching: Bran sees something he shouldn't.<br/>Ch. 18 Post-Recording: Everything ends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Quickening

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back with just a quick update to get this thing started.
> 
> Pretzels asked for a:
> 
> _canon!verse where Rawley finds out that Thea/Reek is pregnant (maybe one of the Bastard Boys raped her). The rest of the story is up to you: Rawley's reaction, what she wants to do about the pregnancy, her need to enact vengeance against whoever impregnated Reek/at Reek herself._
> 
> This is basically a genderbent version of my first fic, [Filled](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3141056), except probably more messed up. Also, I used a genderbend of Myranda, because I like to imagine that in this 'verse, Rawley has a band of ruffian women called, I don't know, Snow's Sluts or something, that go around terrorizing the countryside instead of the Bastard's Boys.

Rawley had been gone for several hours, after storming out in a violent rage. Thea— _no, Reek, you have to remember your name_ —didn’t dare move from the bed. She lay very still, as if even the smallest movement might make her punishment worse. How could it possibly be worse? Whatever awaited her, she didn’t expect to live past…past whenever Rawley returned.

Finally, Rawley did return, blood splattered all over her face and clothes, hair and eyes wild. She stalked to the bed and glared down at Reek.

“Myrdden’s dead,” she announced nonchalantly.

Reek tried to still her breathing, but her lungs betrayed her. “D-dead, my Lady?” Not that Reek had any sympathy for the man, but it wasn’t exactly comforting news. It just meant that Rawley was, in fact, infuriated enough to kill.

“He was beginning to bore me. Kennel master’s son, thinking he stood a chance with a lady like me.” Rawley brushed the bangs from her forehead, leaving bloody streaks across her face. “You didn’t eat,” she noted, as if it were that easy to change topic.

Reek looked at the tray of food where Rawley had left it. She was so hungry, but she hadn’t even tried to eat. It was a trick, she knew, a test. One she hadn’t figured out. But then, again, she so rarely did.

“I was waiting for you, my Lady,” she answered at last, staring at her mangled hands as they gripped the bedsheets.

Rawley sighed in annoyance and began stripping off her bloody gloves. “It’s cold now. I’ll have the kitchen prepare something warm. You need to eat.”

“But I thought—”

“You need to make sure our child is born strong and healthy.” She placed a hand on the gentle swell of Reek’s belly. Reek hadn’t even realized she was pregnant. With the conditions she’d been living in the past few months—years? Had it been years already? It certainly felt like it—her moon cycle had all but stopped. She’d only found out when she began to show. Unfortunately, that was when Rawley had found out as well. “After all, you are carrying the next Lord or Lady of the Dreadfort.”

“But it was—”

“Shush. Don’t argue with me.” Rawley gripped Reek’s chin roughly and forced her to stare into those cold, blue eyes. “Why, didn’t you know? Women can impregnate other women.”

Reek was stunned into silence. What deluded game was this madwoman playing now?

“Are you…not going to have me killed, my Lady?”

The grip on her chin tightened.

“Of course not. I would never harm the mother of my child. And it _is_ mine, isn’t it, Reek?”

“Yes, of course, my Lady.” Better to play along. It was always better to just play along.

“Because, you see, before I killed Myrdden, slit his throat, I gave him a good, hard fucking. So if I fuck you now, the child in your belly will be mine. That’s how it works.” There was a downright manic gleam in her eyes now. “Because I’ll have fucked the seed right out of Myrdden and into you.”

Reek tried to retreat into the pillows, but then Rawley was on top of her, pinning her wrists with one hand while the other bunched up her nightgown to her neck.

“Please, I…” Reek cried out as Rawley roughly bit one of her tender breasts, tugging on a stiffly sore nipple with her teeth.

“We’ll need to get some meat back on these tits. It’s where you’ll be nursing our son when he arrives.”

Reek whimpered. “Please, no.”

Rawley’s free hand lingered over Reek’s slightly bulging stomach a moment before delving between her legs. “Your hips too. Gods, you’ll never be able to pass the child in this condition.”

Reek wanted to beg Rawley to stop, to cut the thing out of her. But she didn’t dare. Not as Rawley’s fingers plunged in up to the knuckle, as calloused as any man’s she’d ever felt.

“Are you ready, my dear? Ready to accept my seed?”

Reek couldn’t even sob, just hiccup.

“That’s what I like to hear.” Rawley began hiking up her own skirt, then the hand was between _her_ legs, a look of extreme concentration on her face.

Reek closed her eyes not to look, not to see how Rawley intended to “fuck Myddren’s see into her.” She was sure she was going to vomit anyway.

“Don’t worry,” Rawley cooed, “it won’t hurt for long.” She planted a cold, wet kiss on Reek’s stomach. “You’re going to be _such_ a wonderful mother to our children.”


	2. Recording

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Julia requested: 
> 
> _Ramsay has kidnapped Theon and keeps him locked up in his basement and livestreams himself torturing and raping Theon on some dodgy website and basically builds up a following of people who pay to watch him torment poor Theon._

There are times when a person looks at the clock after hours of browsing the internet and thinks, “Yep, I’ve seen everything the internet has to offer.” Such a moment was rapidly approaching for Joffrey Baratheon, and it was only one o’clock in the morning.

He’d exhausted his search of “bitch getting a beating” and the like. He’d already run up incredible charges on his father’s credit card and everything still seemed so…tame. Like, no matter how convincing the beatings were, he still knew the women in the videos were being paid to do it, some maybe even _got off_ on it. Whores. He had an easier time getting off on videos of police brutality than from the porn he’d actually paid for.

He was about to call it a night and go to bed after an unsatisfying wank when a soft _bleep_ drew his attention to the message that had appeared in his inbox. It was from one of his forum buddies, a guy he only knew as LastDragon, addressed to his handle, goldenprince: _Hey, check this out._ _Thought you might like_. A link followed.

LastDragon was a bit of a fag, but he had good taste in porn. He always knew where to find the best stuff. Joffrey clicked without really even thinking about it.

The website that popped up was pretty much just a black background with a video player in the middle of the screen. Not much text to speak of, a sidebar with the only options being “chat” and “more videos.” Joffrey hesitated for a moment. This seemed like some real shady shit, like government-watch-list shady. At the best, he’d probably get a malware. When he hovered his mouse over the video, however, a textbox popped up saying, “Bitch’s Lesson 43.” Well, if someone was teaching a bitch a lesson, then he pretty much had to see what that was about.

He clicked the video and let it play.

It was filmed on a crappy webcam, must to his disappointment. The video started with a man adjusting the angle, then stepping back and staring into the camera. He had a ski mask on, and all Joffrey could see of his face were his eerily blue eyes. “Greetings,” he said in a heavily distorted voice. “Ready for some fun?”

He stepped to the side to reveal what could only be described as an amateur dungeon. Obviously in some loser’s unfinished basement, red and pink drapes poorly trying to disguise the bare concrete walls. The lighting was overly harsh. There was a cage in one corner and a crossbar in another. The floor was covered in splatters of…something rust-colored.

Shit, this was some sort of snuff-film-level shit. Joffrey pulled the zipper of his fly down, eager to see where this would go. _This had better be real and not some fake-out_.

The masked man reappeared from stage right. Besides the mask, he was wearing a pair of cargo pants, combat boots, and a sweaty wife-beater—big, beefy guy. The person he dragged along with him was completely naked.

Joffrey sighed in disappointment. LastDragon had sent him some sort of gay porn. He was about to click out, but then the big guy grabbed the little guy’s face and forced him to look into the camera. Joffrey had never tortured a human, but he’d tortured enough animals to know that look. The little guy was not a paid actor. He was terrified out of his mind, shivering and jerking impotently in the big guy’s grasp.

“Say hello, Reek.”

“H-hello,” the little guy said obediently. His voice was not distorted. It was thin and reedy and filled with animal terror.

Joffrey took his hand off the mouse and sat back, now thoroughly intrigued.

“We’ve had a lot of fun together, haven’t we, Reek?” He forced the little guy to nod. “I feel we’ve put on a pretty good show for our viewers. However…I’m always looking for ways to improve the viewing experience. One of our subscribers, mountain_that_rides, says he just can’t get off to two men. Now, that is a problem, isn’t it, Reek?”

The little guy, Reek, squeezed his eyes closed and tears rolled down his cheek. Joffrey’s hand fumbled for his fly again.

“So…I was thinking we might remedy that for our dear friend, mountain_that_rides. He finds the image of your shriveled cock so hard to jack off to, so I figure, why not get rid of the unsightly thing.”

Reek’s mouth moved in an obvious cry of, “Please,” but no words came out.

“Now, another one of our viewers—you remember OneEyedCrow, don’t you?—suggested I take the whole thing off, balls and all, for aesthetic reasons. But GoatCrippler says it would be better to leave you…partially intact. For more fun, you see.”

Reek sobbed and shook his head, as best he could in the masked guy’s grip.

“So, like last time, I put it up for the vote on the chat. And now, loyal viewers, I’m going to reveal the winning choice.”

_Take all of it_ , Joffrey found himself hoping as he took himself in hand.

“What will it be? Let’s find out.” The masked guy released Reek, who dropped to the ground and curled in on himself, shaking his head and begging, begging not to do this. You couldn’t fake that sort of terror. However, when the guy stepped out of the frame again, Reek just continued to lie there. Didn’t try to get up and run, just too beaten down to try.

“That’s right,” Joffrey muttered, stroking himself to hardness. “You lie there and take it like the bitch you are. You know you deserve it.” If he tried hard enough, he could imagine Sansa’s face, imagine the cuts and bruises on his body were on hers. He almost came right then and there, and he never came from _imagining_ anything.

The masked guy came back tossing a hooked blade back and forth in his hands. He grabbed Reek by the hair and pulled him up to his knees. “You understand what I’m going to do to you, don’t you?”

Reek nodded. His face was a mess of tears and snot now, and he hadn’t had a pretty face to begin with. Guy looked like he’d been starved and beaten for several months. Joffrey wondered fleetingly who he was.

“I’m going to cut you. I’m going to cut your unsightly cock off. You get to use it one more time. Make yourself hard for me, Reek.”

“I…I can’t…”

“ _Do it_.”

Reek complied. He reached down between his legs with a hand that was missing two fingers. He began stroking himself halfheartedly, crying all the while.

“You’re not trying at all.”

“I’m sorry, I—”

“ _Try harder_.”

“Yeah, don’t argue back,” Joffrey said to his monitor. “Keep your filthy, whorish mouth closed.”

Reek picked up the pace, but it still took an agonizingly long time to get himself to even half-staff. Joffrey was tempted to fast forward, but then the guy would make a little whimpering noise that went straight to his cock. Shit, he wasn’t going to last until the end of the video.

“That’s enough,” the masked guy said. “A pitiful last use of your cock, but if that’s all you can muster…”

“I’m sorry.”

“You are sorry,” Joffrey muttered. “A sorry, filthy, disgusting whore.”

The masked guy took Reek’s semi-flaccid cock in his hand, and Reek turned his head away. “Will Reek get to keep his balls?” He raised the hooked knife in one hand. “Let’s see what our viewers had to say, eh?”

_This is the greatest thing I’ve seen in my life_ , Joffrey thought as the blade came down. _Gods bless you, LastDragon. Gods bless you, mysterious masked man._


	3. Revolting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thramsayfan said: 
> 
> _I'd like to read a story where Ramsay orders three handmaidens to bathe Reek (on Roose's orders) and two of the handmaidens laugh at Reek's body and his tendency to act like a dog and are just pretty cruel to him in general, but the third has great pity on him and treats him more gently. And then she develops a fondness for him and starts visiting him in the kennels in secret and even sneaks him food once or twice...but then Ramsay finds out..._
> 
> This is the final fill from the last round. Your requests have been heard, and new fills are coming soon...

Brigid had been working as a chambermaid at the Dreadfort for six months before she had her first run-in with Master Ramsay. Up until then, she’d considered herself lucky. In truth, she was a rather plain girl who always did what she was told and tried to keep out of sight as much as possible. She just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time that day, arriving at Lord Roose’s room to strip the linens from his bed just as Lord Ramsay was stepping out. He had a sour look on his face, and at first it seemed he would walk on past without so much as looking at her. But then he turned his head, and before she could stop herself, she was making eye contact with him.

He grabbed her arm and pushed her up against the wall. “You. I want to see you in my bedchamber in half an hour.”

“My Lord, I…” Her mind spun, trying to think of an excuse. One didn’t work at the Dreadfort and not pick up on the rumors of the Bastard. “I have chores to do. Your father’s bedsheets—”

“You’re trembling. You’re scared of me.” He chuckled and leaned in closer. “You think I’m going to hurt you. But I’m not. I have a chore for you. Tell me, can you laugh?”

“Can I laugh, my Lord?”

He gave her a rough shake. “That laugh that women do. You know the one.” He gave a mocking, high-pitched giggle. “Can you do that?”

“I…I don’t—”

“You can’t laugh?”

“I can try, my Lord.” Brigid did not want to find out what he would do if she couldn’t follow his instructions.

“Try or not, I suppose it doesn’t matter. You don’t need to laugh, but when I see you next, I want you to wear _that_ expression for me.”

She opened her mouth to ask.

“The one you gave me, just now as I came out the door.” He released her and took a step back. “You looked repulsed.”

***

 

Brigid arrived at Lord Ramsay’s chambers as she’d been told, still nervous about his plans for her. She did not at all like the idea of being alone with him in his room and was relieved when she heard the tittering of female voices inside. She opened the door to see two chambermaids she’d seen here and there around the Dreadfort. Together they were tending a tub of warm water. There was no sign of Ramsay.

“E-excuse me…”

The two girls looked up. They were both very pretty, Brigid noticed. She felt small and quite ugly under their shared gaze. “Yes?” the blonde snapped. “What is it?”

“I was told Lord Ramsay had a chore for me.”

They looked at each other. “We’re to wash one of the master’s dogs,” the brunette said.

“In here? In the master’s bedchambers?”

“Not my place to question him,” the brunette said with a disdainful shrug.

“I guess not.”

“Are you going to stand there all day like an idiot?” the blonde asked. “At least make yourself useful and help Violet fill the tub up.”

“Oh, of course.” Brigid gave an awkward curtsey and hurried to help the other girl drag buckets of water from the pot over the fireplace to the tub.

They’d gotten it almost completely full by the time Lord Ramsay made his appearance, rapping harshly on the door. “Now, girls,” he called, “I have with me here a very sick dog, and I fear his appearance may be upsetting to you. I know what weak constitutions women have, after all, and I only tell you this so that you are not taken aback. I’m coming in now.”

Brigid had worked on her family’s farm before she’d come to work at the Dreadfort, so she’d seen her fair share of sick and dying animals. She was reasonably sure she could handle anything Lord Ramsay brought them. Still, the thing he dragged through the door was most definitely not an animal, but a man. A haggard man, so thin she could see every bone in his body. Because he was completely bare, save the bit of leather around his neck. She could not stop the repulsion that swept over her, first at his appearance, then at his smell. She cupped a hand over her nose to block it out.

The other two girls made similar faces of disgust, and the blonde one burst out laughing. “That’s a dog?”

“I did warn you,” Lord Ramsay said, pulling the struggling man into the room and closing the door behind him. Gods, had he dragged the poor thing through the castle in that condition? “He is unwell. But my father believes a bath would go a long way towards making him presentable again. Come here, Reek.” He hooked his fingers into the collar and drew the man towards the tub. “These nice women are going to bathe you.”

“No, Master, no, I don’t need a bath.” The man dug his feet into the carpet—he was missing several toes, the stumps rotted away. He seemed most intent on protecting his modesty, though, hands clamped between his legs. Brigid found herself morbidly curious. She had not seen many men naked before.

The two other girls looked to each other and started laughing, a shared, uncomfortable laugh that only made Brigid want to run from the room all the more.

“Come now, Reek, no need to be shy.” Lord Ramsay grabbed one of the man’s wrists and pulled it free. Brigid could see that he was missing fingers as well. “Show them, pet. They’ll be seeing it soon enough.” He pulled the other hand free and held both wrists—thin enough to fit in just one of his hands—over the creature’s head, revealing what was between his legs.

“He’s been gelded,” the blonde shrieked with genuine laughter.

The poor creature tried to hide the empty space by crossing his legs. Brigid could not tear her eyes away from it. Bile was building up in her throat. She had never doubted, but now she knew: Every rumor about Lord Ramsay was true.

“You’ll forgive him,” Lord Ramsay said, “he’s been so shy since he’s been cut. But he does need a good bathing, and I thought a trio of lovely ladies such as yourself might go a way towards helping him feel…like his old self.”

The man hung in his grip, head lowered, and sobbed, chest and shoulders spasming rapidly.

“I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do for your dog,” the brunette, Violet, said, hiding her hand behind her mouth, but not enough to stifle a giggle. “We can wash him up as best we’re able, but we can’t regrow his cock for him.”

“Oh, you don’t think? But you haven’t tried. Here, try, try.” Lord Ramsay grabbed her wrist and tried to bring her hand to the empty space, to that awful scar. Violet squirmed free with a disgusted grunt, and the blonde squealed in laughter. Ramsay made the cruelest face of mock sympathy. “Oh, won’t any of you even touch poor Reek?”

“I’ll do it.”

Everyone was silent as Brigid stepped forward. She could feel the stunned stares of the other two girls on her back, and the curious stare of Lord Ramsay as he looked down on her. But primarily she kept her eyes on the man’s face, tried to look past the skeletal appearance to the frightened eyes that held such suffering in them.

Without giving herself time to pause, she put her hand where Lord Ramsay had tried to put Violet’s. Her whole body shuddered in revulsion, at the feel of the scar, at the feel of the filth, but she vowed not to show it in her face. Instead, he continued to hold his gaze as she felt for one second, two, then finally let her hand fall away.

“See there?” she said, holding up her hand for the girls to see, as if to prove it hadn’t fallen off. “Nothing to be afraid of.” She used her clean hand to cup his cheek. “Nothing to be afraid of,” she repeated.

A tear slid down his cheek.

Brigid turned to the other girls. “I will wash him if you help me get him into the tub.”

Lord Ramsay let them take the man from him without saying a word. He stalked over to the bed and sat there, cold eyes on Brigid. He did not seem pleased, though Brigid could not say why. She was doing what he wanted, right?

She did a thorough job of cleaning the “dog,” scrubbing away the thick layers of dirt and human filth where she could, brushing gently where needed. And when it came time to clean between his legs, she did that gently, for she could tell it still pained him. “You…don’t need to be so gentle,” he said, his face so low to the water that his breath stirred ripples. “I know I am…disgusting. You do not need to touch me.”

She clucked her tongue and leaned in close to him to whisper in his ear, “It’s alright. You don’t disgust me. The man sitting on the bed over there…he disgusts me.”

He nodded, ever so slightly. “You are a compassionate person. But your compassion is wasted on me.”

“That’s for me to decide.”

He shook his head. “Nothing good can come of it…can come from being kind to me. I’m Reek.”

“Hush.” She finished between his legs and wrung the cloth out. “Now, about your hair…”

 

***

 

It was late. Brigid should be asleep. Tomorrow she would need to make up for the chores she’d missed while tending to Lord Ramsay’s “pet.” But every time she closed her eyes, she saw his big eyes, felt his bony body. She knew she needed to do something for him. And that was how she found herself stealing a loaf of bread from the kitchens—just a tiny thing, just a stale bit of bread nobody would miss—and stealing out to the kennels, where Violet had told her Reek was kept.

She crept along the corridors quietly, not even daring to use a candle to light her way. Every time she heard a footstep or a creak, she stopped dead in her tracks and pressed herself flat against the wall until her heart had stilled to a normal pace. She shouldn’t be doing this. She knew she shouldn’t be doing this. She’d done so well at going unnoticed so far. But Reek…

She’d had a dog, when she was young. Just a stray with a belly caved in from hunger. Her father had told her to chase it off with rocks if it ever came around, but instead she’d brought food, just little table scraps, portions of her own meal set aside for the mangy dog that hung around their barn. It soon became part of her daily ritual, go out to tend the animals and then feed her dog, who always wagged its tail whenever it saw her. Soon, the dog was following her everywhere, her constant companion, even sleeping in her bed, though her mother said she would only get fleas for her trouble. Brigid had found the occasional flea no bother at all compared to the warmth curled up next to her every night.

She’d loved that dog, until the day it had been killed by some of the village boys, who’d ended up beating it to death. Brigid had found the body on the side of the road, still warm. She’d knelt down and cried and wondered how people could be so cruel. She remembered thinking how terrified if must have been in its last minutes, surrounded by sadistic strangers. Had it wondered where she was? Had it wished she’d been there to _do_ something? To save it?

She was so caught up in her memories that she didn’t even realize there was anyone behind her until a hand reached out and grabbed her shoulder. She gasped and whirled to see a shadow so large it could only be Lord Ramsay. “A bit late to be up, isn’t it?” his voice cut through the darkness.

“I…”

“You wouldn’t be sneaking out to give extra treats to my doggy now, would you?” The bread was ripped from her hands. “Reek is spoiled enough as it is.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Not to mention, I never saw you wash your hands after they were all over him. Feeling his dirty little hole. You didn’t flinch at all, you dirty, dirty girl. You enjoyed it, didn’t you?”

“No.”

“You loved feeling what I did to him, you loved trying to see what I had left him with.”

“No,” she protested, now trying to pull free from his grip.

He grabbed hold of her wrist and pinned it against the wall. In his other hand, a butcher’s knife, so sharp in glinted in the dim light. “I don’t want this dirty, dirty hand touching anything that belongs to me,” he hissed. “Ever again.”

The knife glinted again as it slid through the air. There was a sharp, almost distant pain Brigid couldn’t comprehend, and then she was sliding to the ground, no longer being pinned in place. She didn’t even realize what had happened until Ramsay tossed her severed hand into her lap. Then she began to scream.


	4. Initiating

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Piku asked for: 
> 
> _A high school AU where Ramsay takes a liking to Theon and he and the Boys gang rape him in an empty classroom please? Bonus points - if Ramsay tells Theon that he owns him now._
> 
> Also kinda doubles as a gang AU.

Mr. Tyrell had a classroom on the second floor overlooking the student parking lot, plus he was stupid enough to believe Ramsay and his Boys wanted to use the space to hold auditions for a school play. In truth, there was only one audition, and the play in question was one Ramsay had rehearsed with the Boys beforehand.

Enter the new kid, stage right. “I thought about what you said, Ramsay.” Opening line. “I want in.”

Beat.

“Sorry,” Damon answered, “we’re not really looking for new members.”

Ramsay held up his hand. “Now wait, Damon. _I_ extended this invitation.” He gestured to the new kid, Theon, as if giving him the floor. “We run a tight ship here, but if you’ve got something to bring to the table…” Was that a mixed metaphor? Probably. He didn’t care. He didn’t come to school to _learn_ , after all.

Theon clutched his bookcase tightly against his chest, the way a girl would. He looked so damned uncertain of himself, but he’d come here willingly. He’d heard about Ramsay’s extracurricular activities and wanted in. Thought he could buy himself some protection. A kid that stupid belonged in special ed., with a nice lady watching over his shoulder to make sure he didn’t eat the crayons.

“I…can give your gang cred,” he began, not really looking at them.

Skinner burst out laughing. “Yeah, we’ll give you a call when we need a little bitch to back us up in a fight.”

Theon flushed. “I’m a Greyjoy,” he said, hugging his books closer. “Both of my brothers were in a gang. My father runs the biggest drug ring in the city. People know my name.”

“They know your _daddy’s_ name,” Skinner hissed, pushing off from the wall. He crossed the empty classroom and put himself between Theon and the door, while the other Boys circled around. Ramsay stayed where he was, leaning against the window, picking at his nails with a switchblade.

“You really want to join us?” Damon asked. He gave Theon a rough shove that knocked the books from his hands. “You think you’ve got what it takes?” While Theon was on his hands and knees trying to gather up books, Damon shot Ramsay a look: _This what you wanted_?

Ramsay nodded back. _Exactly_. He then gave the signal to proceed. _Drop the other shoe_.

Damon grinned and kicked the books out from Theon’s hands again. Theon glared up at him. Stupid kid. Had probably missed his ride home on the short bus by agreeing to meet them here after school. “We have an initiation ritual,” Damon said.

Theon scowled and got up to his knees. Gods, he looked good like that. On his knees. The defiant look on his face would need to go, though. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Damon stuffed his hands into his pockets. “It’s pretty brutal.”

Theon jutted out his chin. “I can do it, whatever it is.” He looked up to Ramsay for approval. “What do you need me to do?”

“You can’t tell anyone about it,” Damon said. Ramsay had made him the ringleader for this little operation, and he was really taking the task to heart. Maneuvering Theon right where Ramsay wanted him. And oh, Ramsay wanted him. “You understand?” Damon prompted. “You make a peep, and we cut your balls off with a rusty knife. Got it?”

Theon nodded. There was fear in his eyes now, but not nearly an appropriate amount. “Y-yeah,” he stammered out. “Sure. My lips are sealed.”

“Okay.” Damon brought the Boys in closer. Theon flinched away, but there was nowhere to flinch _to_. He was surrounded on all sides. Even someone as dumb as him had to realize it had been a bad idea to seek Ramsay out. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure,” Theon insisted, mastering the unsteadiness of his voice. Somewhat. “What’s the initiation? Do I…do I have to… _hurt_ someone or…?”

“Oh no, nothing like that.” Damon chuckled and shook his head. “That’s a little too advanced for…someone like _you_. All you’ve got to do…” He paused here, with one last look towards Ramsay. Ramsay nodded. “Is bend over.”

Theon, still on his knees, stared up at Damon, then at the other Boys. “What?”

“Bend over,” Damon said. “You don’t even need to take your pants off. We can help you with that.” He reached down and grabbed the back of Theon’s shirt, a black number with one of those edgy metal band logos on it. He hauled the thin boy up and slammed him down on the nearest desk, bending him at the waist.

“Wh-what are you…?” Theon struggled. He couldn’t be so stupid that he hadn’t figured out what they meant. “You…you’re not talking about…I can’t…”

“You said you wanted to join. And this is the initiation.”

“No.” Theon had to lean his cheek against the desk’s surface to look over at Ramsay, still leaning against the wall. “You…you said you wanted me for your gang. You said—”

“Shut up.” Damon slammed Theon’s head on the desk. “You don’t get to back out now.” He reached around and began fumbling with the fly of Theon’s pants.

Theon gripped the sides of the desk. “Please,” he implored, casting large, frightened eyes towards Ramsay once more. Nearing the appropriate amount of fear, but Ramsay was willing to bet he could do better still. “You said you’d _protect_ me.”

“And we will.” Ramsay finally pushed off from the wall and sauntered forward. “We always protect our own.” He came around the other side of the desk and bent down just enough that he was face-to-face with his prey. The prey he’d watched all week, the new student who’d transferred in from some fancy zip code, who’d already gotten to work sleeping with half the student body.

Theon wriggled his hips, which only helped Damon get his pants down all the faster. He cried out as his ass was exposed.

“No screaming now,” Skinner hissed. “You wouldn’t want the janitor walking in on us, would you?”

“I’ll scream for help,” Theon said, his voice thick and on the verge of tears. “You can’t do this. I didn’t agree—”

“But you _did_ agree,” Damon said, reaching for his own fly. “And remember, you promised not to breathe a word of this to anyone. Of course, if you want to go back on your promise, I’ve got a rusty blade in my pockets right here.”

“Y…you wouldn’t.”

“Oh, wouldn’t I?” Damon reached into his pants pocket and pulled out his pocket knife. Just as he’d promised, it was rusty. Damon kept it for intimidation purposes. There were better knives for slicing up bitches.

“If you’re here, it’s because you’ve heard stories about us,” Ramsay said. So close he could smell the kid’s last cigarette on his breath, could see the snot forming in his nose as he started to cry. “Maybe you heard we’re into smalltime stuff like drugs and carjacking. In that case, you heard wrong.”

“I shanked a kid with this knife right outside the school here,” Damon said, gesturing with his knife out the window to where the building’s back entrance led into the parking lot. “He bled to death by the time they got him to the hospital.” Damon clicked his knife closed and slipped it back into his pocket. “So maybe think about whether you want to call my bluff or not.”

He started to shimmy his pants down.

Theon squeaked, like a goddamned rat. “No.” His voice was quieter than it had been, though. “No, please don’t. There’s got to be something else. I’ll do anything.”

“What you’ll do is stop wriggling.” Damon gripped his hands. “You want something to bite down on or—?”

“Stop,” Ramsay said.

Damon did, a look of annoyance on his face. They hadn’t strictly discussed what was going to happen once they had the new kid bent over the desk, but Damon hadn’t gotten to be his right hand man by questioning him.

Theon, meanwhile, looked up at Ramsay with hopeful eyes. Thinking he’d changed his mind. Kid was a retard of the highest level.

Ramsay smirked and walked around the desk, shoving Damon roughly out of the way. Damon made an indignant noise but backed away, allowing Ramsay to take his place. “I reserve the right to welcome our newest recruit first.”

Ramsay gripped Theon’s hips. He could no longer see Theon’s face pressed down into the desk, but he could hear the hopeless sob that escaped the boy’s mouth. Yes, that was the sweet noise he’d been craving.

“Oh, don’t cry,” Ramsay cooed, pausing to run a hand through Theon’s unruly hair, clamping down on the nape of his neck. “Like I said, I take care of my own. And after today…” His hands went back to Theon’s ass, spread him wide. “I’ll own _you_.”


	5. Tearing in Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mag asked for a: 
> 
> _Thramsay in a Slave AU setting where Theon has been put up for auction after being trained and Roose and Ramsay (and maybe Damon too if you like) are looking to buy a slave for themselves and of course as soon as Ramsay lays his eyes on Theon...well, the rest is history, ya know? Bonus points if Theon realizes pretty quickly that these are no ordinary masters, they're A LOT harsher and harder to please than anyone he's ever comes across before._

Theon was good. The best, in his own opinion, little though he knew it counted. He wasn’t surprised that he’d started a minor bidding war among the gathered crowd, but he was surprised—and rather proud—at the exorbitant amount the final bid had reached. Not that any of it would go to him, but it was good that others recognized his high quality.

He was lead from the staging area, where the man who was to be his new master was awaiting him. He was leashed and handed off to the gentleman, who had dark hair and pale eyes and wore a single bloodstone earing. He was joined by a man Theon had not seen during the auction, an older man with graying dark hair and the same pale eyes. Father and son, perhaps? Definitely related, and from money, of course.

“This is what you spent my money on?” the older man asked. Theon was a bit insulted that he didn’t give even a cursory glance at his body, after all the work that had gone into making him smooth and sleek for the auction. He stopped himself, though. He wasn’t allowed to feel insulted by his new masters.

“I had to have him, Father,” the younger man said, tugging on Theon’s leash to bring him closer. “You said I could have a new slave, and this is the one I want. You’re the one who’s always saying it’s better to pay for a quality product upfront, right?”

The older man tilted his head in what might have been a nod. “Very well. Bring him. We’re done here.”

“But don’t you—?” The young man started to speak, but the older one—definitely his father—silenced him with a single glare. Theon realized that even though the younger was his new master, the older was the authority and the one he’d ultimately need to mind.

The three of them left the pen, Theon trailing behind his new master, staying an exact two paces behind just like the trainers had taught him so that the leash wouldn’t pull. He kept his eyes down, trusting his master to lead him around any obstacles. They left the marketplace and eventually reached a carriage. Theon dared to lift his eyes enough, but that quick glance upwards was not enough to tell if the driver was another slave or not. He was clothed, at the least beyond the loose-fitting robes and sandals Theon had been provided for use during transfer.

His new master shoved him roughly into the carriage, and his new master’s father closed the door softly behind him as he joined them. Theon sat with his new master while the older man sat across from them, hands folded neatly on his lap. “Now then, what training have you received?” he asked as the carriage started moving.

Theon lowered his eyes and answered promptly. “I’ve had training as a house slave, including cooking, cleaning, and entertaining for gatherings, but the majority of my training has been as a pleasure slave. I was instructed in the Seven Pathways of Pleasure and—”

The older man held up his hand, a clear call for silence. “And why did your previous owner get rid of you?”

Theon swallowed thickly. “He…passed away, ser.”

“I am no ser,” the older man corrected. “You may call me Lord Roose Bolton. My son, Ramsay.”

His new master tugged on his leash and pulled Theon into his lap. A large hand caressed his head. “When his old master kicked the bucket, he was taken and trained as a sex slave,” Ramsay explained. “I’ll be his first _real_ owner, won’t I?”

Theon nodded and tamped down on his anger. Slaves weren’t allowed to feel anger, but he didn’t like anyone talking about Robb that way. He had never thought of Robb as a master, but as a friend. Of course, it was unlikely that Robb had ever felt the same, and the new trainers had beaten those sentiments out of him fairly quickly.

Training had been rough, as Theon had not been used to such treatment as a house slave. The trainers called him “coddled” and “spoiled,” but after a rocky first month, he’d taken to his lessons with renewed understanding. Do what the trainers tell you, don’t talk back, don’t offer your opinion, don’t hesitate. That was the real key. Don’t hesitate, no matter what the order. And now here he was, easily the top-selling slave at today’s market. He nuzzled against Ramsay’s thigh to show his gratitude and promise to serve his new master well.

 

***

 

His new home was in a stately manor on a sprawling plot of land. The driveway seemed to stretch forever. The driver brought the carriage around and opened the door for them.

Ramsay didn’t give him time to consider the scenery, what little there was of it—most of the trees, gardens, and topiary looked to be dead—before giving a harsh tug on the leash. Theon followed along as he had at the marketplace, two steps behind, head lowered. He watched his sandals clip up a set of stone stairways, over a door threshold, and finally onto a floor of fine checkered marble, where Ramsay finally brought him to a stop.

“Get those rags off,” he ordered. “You’re not to wear clothes here.”

Roose sighed in disapproval, but Theon obeyed Ramsay and stripped. He once more glowed with pride as Ramsay looked him up and down. He didn’t mind being an object. He’d been born an object and, barring an extraordinarily generous master, he would die an object. Better to be a pretty object, one that a master could admire.

“I’m taking him upstairs to try him out.”

“No,” Roose said as Ramsay began to gather up the leash again.

Ramsay stopped and stared at his father. “What?”

“You’ve spent a great deal of my money on this expensive toy,” Roose said slowly, examining his fingernails. “I won’t have you breaking your things so quickly. I would like this one to last more than a couple weeks.”

Ramsay’s jaw clicked shut.

Theon looked from father to son, unsure of what to do. _Breaking your things_? _This one_? Despite what the trainers had told him, day in and day out, he wasn’t stupid. There were plenty of stories of masters with peculiar rules and tastes, masters who would inflict punishments for minor offenses, some who just like inflicting punishments in general. Theon vowed he would never give his new master any reason to punish him. He was good, he knew his place, and he could follow any order Master Ramsay wished of him without complaint.

He didn’t dare voice this, of course, but he held his head as high as was proper to show Roose that he wasn’t afraid, that he wouldn’t flinch or hesitate, no matter what his son asked of him. Rough sex he could handle. He was not some fragile toy.

“He can handle it,” Ramsay said, after a moment of silently flapping his jaw. “Can’t you?”

Theon nodded.

“Good, then we’re going up to my room.”

Another tug on his leash.

“No.”

The leash went slack as Ramsay turned, once more.

“I told you to wait, so you’re going to wait.” Roose hooked a finger into Theon’s collar. “It’s time you learned the art of patience.”

Ramsay stomped his foot. “You want him first, is that it?”

Roose snorted lightly in disgust and unclipped the leash from the collar. “You’ll wait until tonight. You.” He turned to Theon. “You have the afternoon off. Find someone to show you around and spend your free time familiarizing yourself with the grounds.”

Theon nodded and turned to go.

“Stop!”

Theon froze.

“I’m your master, not him. You follow _my_ orders, and _my_ orders are to follow me up to my room.”

Theon turned again.

“No.” Roose’s voice was still level, but it stopped Theon dead in his tracks. “I am the master of this house and I have given you the afternoon off.”

Theon looked to Roose, then to Ramsay. Ramsay’s face was growing red, while Roose seemed to grow icier.

Theon wasn’t sure who to obey. Ramsay was the obvious choice. He was his new master, after all, the one who had paid for him. Paid for him with Roose’s money, though. Even if Ramsay had the power to punish _him_ , Roose had the power to punish _them both_.

He made a split-second decision and bowed to Roose before scurrying from the room to do as the older man had bid him. Ramsay started to yell after him, but Roose’s soft voice drowned him out. “Stop your tantrum. You can go to your room yourself and work on your studies. I’ll send for you when dinner is ready.”

 

***

 

Theon spent the rest of the afternoon as Roose had instructed, though it was difficult to find a guide. There was an abundance of household slaves—he knew them all on sight by their collars—but not a one could be convinced to leave their duty, even for just a bit, even if Theon assured them it was on Lord Roose’s orders. He ended up wandering the manor by himself, and later taking dinner in the slave quarters with the same slaves who still refused to speak to him. They were a quiet, grim lot, many bearing bruises, cuts, and even whip marks, and that was just on the skin he could see. Obviously they were in need of constant punishment to be in such condition. No wonder Lord Roose had had so little faith in Theon’s abilities. He would need to show them all how it was done, how a proper slave behaved.

After dinner, a kitchen slave came to inform him that Lord Ramsay had requested his presence upstairs. He happily took his leave of his fellow slaves and wound his way through the hallways to the room he had earlier assessed to be Ramsay’s. He gave a respectful knock and stood waiting for Ramsay to answer, arms at his sides, shoulders back. “Come in,” a voice ordered, so Theon did.

The room within was truly something to rival anything from his old home, even though the manor was smaller than Robb’s. The windows reached to the high ceilings, with thick, red drapes blocking out the last of the day’s light. The furniture, from the dressers to the chairs in front of the empty fireplace, were all posh, no-expenses-spared. The centerpiece was, of course, the canopied bed, with plush sheets and a mattress so smooth it could only be filled with down. Theon supposed he would be using the bed a lot from now on.

Ramsay was sitting at one of the armchairs, face turned away as Theon entered. It was difficult to tell if he was still angry or if he’d had time to calm down. Theon vowed that, whichever case, he would lighten his master’s mood.

“Where would you like me, master?”

Ramsay didn’t move, except to drum his fingers on the arm of his chair. “ _Now_ you would like me to give you orders?”

Theon supposed he knew what this was about. Ramsay was wounded that he had chosen to obey his father over him. “ _You_ are my master,” he began. “From now on, I will take orders from you, and you alone.”

“Good.” He didn’t sound happy. “And if my father asks you to go against my orders again…?”

“I will refuse. Respectfully.”

“Good. Come here.”

Theon approached.

“Come sit on my lap.”

Theon did, without hesitation. His master welcomed him with a warm hand on his back.

“You’re an eager little thing, aren’t you?”

Theon nodded and leaned his cheek against his master’s shoulder.

“You want to make it up to me for what you did today, don’t you?”

“More than anything, master.”

“So eager.” Ramsay chuckled. “Do you know what would make me happiest right now?”

“Tell me, master.”

“I would love to see you in pain.”

Theon blinked.

Before he could even ask what he meant, he was thrown from the chair. He caught himself on his hands and knees as Ramsay loomed over him, impossibly large and intimidating. A boot caught him in the stomach, knocking the wind from him, and nearly his dinner as well. He rolled over onto his side and clutched his stomach.

“You, with your pretty words and your pretty face.” Ramsay spat at him. “You’re no better than any of the others. I thought since I’d paid so much for you, I might be getting a slave who could follow orders. Looks like someone skimped on your training, eh?”

“Master, I…” Theon coughed, unsure of what to say. Unsure of how to ease his master’s anger.

Ramsay gave him another kick, almost an afterthought. “That’s fine, I guess. A bit of a disappointment, but as they say, if you want something done right, you’ve got to do it yourself.” Ramsay stormed to the fireplace and knelt next to the rack where the bellows, brushes, and assorted tools were kept. “Guess we’ll just have to pick up where your training left off.” Ramsay picked the poker and tested its weight in his hand.

“Please, master,” Theon tried again. He didn’t dare move from his position on the floor, but he feared what would come next. “You don’t need to punish me. I’ll never upset you again.”

Ramsay turned towards him, giving the poker a few practice swings.

“Please,” Theon croaked. Panic gripped his throat so tightly that hardly any words could make their way out. “I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not.” He began back towards Theon, poker in hand. “But you will be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBC...
> 
> Next chapter will be a continuation of this one, filling another request. Check back on Friday and thanks again for reading.


	6. Tearing Into

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: This is a continuation of the previous chapter. If you haven't read it, go read it now.
> 
> Cuddlycuttlefish said: 
> 
> _I had a heinous day so maybe you could do something where Ramsay takes out all of his anger on Reek after a bad meeting with his father or something or if he loses a girl in a hunt. He just beats the shit out of him, ignoring Reek's begging, violently rapes him, and all that shit._
> 
> Hope you're feeling better, cuddlycuttlefish. Poor Theon won't be for a while after this, I'm afraid.

The rod came down across his back; the hook caught him in the ribs. Theon yelped and arched backwards. The poker swished through the air and hit him again, again on the back. It made a dull sound, like meat on a chopping block.

“Please!” Theon cried. “I’m sorry, master. I won’t ever obey your father over you again.”

Ramsay said nothing, just swung the metal bar into his slave’s exposed belly. Theon saw sparks behind his eyes, and the next thing he knew, he was on his hands and knees, emptying his stomach all over his new master’s carpet. The bile burned his throat, but even worse was the pain in his gut. It felt like he had been clawed open, and when he looked down, between his trembling arms, there was a big, bright welt forming. No blood. How could that be? It felt like he should have been torn open.

Ramsay’s footsteps thudded dully on the carpet as he approached, brandishing the poker.

“I…I’m sorry,” Theon tried again. “I didn’t mean—I can clean it up.”

The metal rod struck him full across the face, sending him sprawling. He was sure he blacked out for a moment, and then the pain in his jaw was red hot. He felt something rattling around in his mouth, and as he opened wide to scream, two chipped teeth slipped out in a pool of blood and drool. He looked up at Ramsay.

“That ought to shut you up,” Ramsay said. “Unless you want more of this?”

Theon shook his head, and Ramsay tossed the poker onto the floor.

Theon shuddered and collapsed onto the carpet, tending his jaw. It hurt to move; it felt broken. He was so busy with that that the boot to the stomach, right where the poker had struck him, caught him completely off guard. He rolled over and curled in on himself. Not over? It wasn’t over?

Ramsay brought his boot down again and again onto Theon’s exposed back, hitting his shoulder blades, his ribs, his kidneys, his hips. The sole, the toe, the heel—there was no pattern, no real rhythm. Theon heard something crack along the way, and pain sharper than the rest exploded somewhere…somewhere that almost wasn’t in his body. He didn’t know. He wasn’t sure anymore. His battered body didn’t feel like his own.

The months of pleasure slave training faded away, and self-preservation took over. Theon began to claw his way towards the bed, towards the space underneath where his master couldn’t reach him. _No, bad Theon. We don’t run from master._ The voice was too small to hear over the stomping of the boot and the crunching of bone.

His hand reached out to pull himself along, and Ramsay stomped on it, pinning it in place. Theon whimpered, unable to grit his teeth against the noise. “Trying to escape?”

Theon shook his head.

“No? Then you’re trying to get to the bed, because you’re just that eager, huh?” The boot was gone from his hand, but now a heavy weight was on his back, a hand in his hair yanking his head back. “You think you deserve the bed after the way you behaved downstairs?”

Again, Theon shook his head. “No…master.” The words were agony to make.

“Good. You’ll take it right here, like the bitch you are.” Ramsay slammed Theon’s face into the floor. Theon gave a muffled cry into the carpet as more blood rushed from his mouth, out his nose, turning the entire world copper. “In your training, I bet they taught you how to take a cock, eh?”

Theon managed to nod, a simple up and down movement of his head against the floor.

“They teach you to take other things?”

Theon couldn’t manage anything at that. His heart had stopped working.

“Well, it looks like we found another place where your training is lacking then.”

Ramsay’s hand was gone from his hair, and Theon felt him reach for something. The poker, left abandoned an arm’s reach away.

“No,” he ground out. “No, please, please, I’ll be good.”  The words fell, heedless of the pain in his jaw. His hands clawed at the carpet. “Please, I’ll be good, I’ve learned my lesson, I—”

“Shut up.” The poker swished through the air as Ramsay hefted it in his grasp. “Be glad I didn’t have a fire going, or you’d be taking red hot iron up your arse.” He laughed and leaned heavily on Theon’s back. “That’d be a lesson you wouldn’t forget, I’d bet.”

Theon whined low in his throat.

“Well.” Ramsay flicked the poker lightly across Theon’s bare ass, teasing. “I guess I’ll just have to do my best to make sure you don’t forget _this_ lesson. Just cold, hard iron.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Review of the day: "....read out of curiosity.....what the actually fuck....why would you write about such a fucked up kinda paring?....I don't even want to know what the next couple of chapters are about....the only good thing I can say is that it's well written-fucked up but well written."
> 
> I'm honestly thinking about having this one framed on my wall. It's just so...beautiful.


	7. Reacting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maggie asked for a scenario where: 
> 
> _Ramsay forces a pre-Reek Theon at knifepoint or gunpoint (depending on if you want to canon or AU) to be "complicit" in his own rape, such as making him ride Ramsay and strip for him slowly and give him a blowjob, etc._
> 
> Yeah, this one is kinda brutal. If anyone sees anything that needs to be tagged, be sure to let me know.

Whenever Theon had given any thought to the possibility of being sexual assaulted—which was, admittedly, not very often—he’d always sworn that he’d fight tooth and nail. Better to be dead than bent over and fucked against your will.

All of that went out the window the moment he saw the gun, felt the chill of the barrel pressed against his temple as he was shoved up against the wall. Then all he could think was, _I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die_.

The guy from the bar had followed him, probably waited out in the parking lot after they’d thrown him out. Waited until he’d gone down a small enough, deserted enough street to strike, grab him by the collar and drag him into an alleyway. Push him against the brick walls, gun held to his head, hand fumbling with his belt. “Little cocktease,” the guy was mumbling. “Think you can take advantage of my hospitality and not even return the fucking favor?”

Theon wanted to gather up all his derision and say something, something witty or biting— _I’m worth way more than fifteen bucks of cheap vodka, asshole_. But he couldn’t. The gun was pressed against his head, the mere twitch of a finger separating him from here and oblivion. _I don’t want to die_.

The guy had gotten Theon's belt unbuckled and was now shimmying his pants down his legs. “Nice, nice,” he said, hand running up Theon’s leg, resting on his ass. “Knew you were hiding something nice under here. Okay, okay. You’re doing good. No screaming now. I’m going to take my gun away for a moment, and you’re just going to stay there like a good boy. Got it?” He gave Theon’s ass a squeeze, then the gun was gone.

**Theon turned around, kicking the gun out of the guy’s hand. The guy was so stunned he didn’t see the roundhouse kick coming at his face, knocking him to the ground, giving Theon the chance to run the hell out of there…**

The sound of a zipper made him flinch out of his reverie and against the wall. _Do it_! he screamed to himself. _You can do it. Run, now_. _If you don’t do something, this is going to happen. You’re going to get raped in a dark alley by the guy who was creeping on you at the bar_.

He tensed, took a deep breath. But his legs wouldn’t work.

_Why won’t you just do it?_

_Because I don’t want to die._

The guy was done and the gun was back and he’d lost his chance. “Okay, it’s okay, sweetheart.” A hand was running through his hair. “I’m not going to hurt you, I promise. I saw you at the bar and I knew, _I knew_ you would look beautiful on top of me.” He felt the guy lean in and sniff. “I bet you’re a real expert at riding cock.”

Theon finally found his tongue, but instead of some quip, all he could manage was, “Please don’t do this.”

“Oh, now it’s all please, please, please. Just a little while ago, you were too good for me. Taking every drink I bought you without even talking to me. Well, now you’re going to pony up.” He dragged Theon forwards.  “Here’s how things are going to go. Option One. You’re going to prepare yourself, put on a little show. You’ve got five minutes, and then my cock is going in your ass. Got it?”

“Please, I—”

“Option Two!” the guy yelled. “This _gun_ goes up your ass instead and we play a round of Russian roulette. Does that sound better?”

Theon shook his head.

“Okay, then.” The guy waved with his gun. “Finish stripping. I want to see all of you.”

Theon hiccupped back a sob and began to step out of his pants, which were down around his ankles now. He remembered going to buy the skinny jeans with Robb. Robb had said they made his ass look good, and that may or may not have been the sole reason he’d ended up buying them. He had to take off his shoes to get them off. His briefs followed, uncharacteristically clean. He always wore a clean pair when he went out clubbing, on the not-off chance he got lucky.

He wasn’t feeling very lucky at the moment.

“Nice,” the guy said, and even though Theon wasn’t looking at him, he could imagine the gun with its sleek barrel pointed right between his eyes. “Now the rest.”

His hands shook as he reached for the collar of his shirt and began to unbutton it.

“If you’re going to go that slowly, at least make a show of it.”

Theon flinched. He physically couldn’t get his hands to go any faster. They kept slipping over the sleek buttons, trying to force them back through their holes. _Gods, this is happening_. A calm settled over him, almost like his panic had built to a point where it had shorted out his brain. He wasn’t in his body anymore, just watching from somewhere above. _Alright_ , he told himself. _Get it done, get it over with. I want to be alive by this time tomorrow._

One by one, he slipped the buttons from their holes and began shucking his shirt over his shoulders. He couldn’t feel anything. Not the chill of the air, not the chill of disgust as the other guy groaned. The shirt fell to the ground, the long tails no longer covering him. He stood, bare and lightheaded, before the man with the gun.

“Okay, now get your ass over here.”

Theon did, numbly climbing onto the guy’s lap when he led with the gun. The guy had gotten his fly down. When had that happened? Perhaps Theon had been too busy looking at the gun and not at his assailant. _Rapist_. He felt the man’s hardness as it brushed against his ass, and inside he felt nothing.

“You’ve got one minute to prepare yourself,” the guy said. “You’re only getting as good as you give, got it?”

Theon nodded numbly and reached around. His body didn’t register anything as he forced his fingers up inside himself, first one, then two. The sound of it was the worst thing, and the pain from bending his wrist at an odd angle. It felt like someone else—someone else’s hand, someone else’s ass.

He was about to add a third when the guy grabbed his hand and pulled it free. “That’s enough.”

Theon stared at him without really seeing him. _This is going to happen_.

The gun was back at his temple, but even that didn’t jar him back into his body. “What’s with that blank look? You going to make me do all the work here?” The guy spat in his face. “None of that dead starfish shit. You’re going to ride me at least as well as you’ve ridden every other cock in your life. Now…” The gun jerked. “Get to it.”

Theon nodded. Lifted himself up. Waited as the guy fumbled with his hands to line everything up. Lowered himself down.

The pain of it, the raw tearing, was almost enough to snap him back to himself. But not quite. He bore down, eyes focused on the bricks in the wall behind them, on the bits of litter in the sewer drain. His teeth clicked together to keep from screaming. The guy might think he was calling out for help and shoot him dead—in one ear and out the other, like Asha had always said. And in any case, it wasn’t like anyone was coming. There was no one.

The guy groaned and threw his head back. “Gods…so tight. Didn’t expect…”

The gun slipped.

**Theon grabbed the gun, turned it on the guy, blew his brains all over the bricks. Pulpy little bits of him landed in the gutter and trickled down the sewer drain.**

The guy started to pump into him, and Theon blinked. _Don’t give him a reason to kill you_. He bucked back, and that earned a happy sigh from his rapist. It was pathetic, pleasing this man, _wanting_ to please this man.

**Theon grabbed the gun, shot the motherfucker right in the balls, listened to him howl with pain. “Don’t you ever touch me again.” The guy begged and pleaded, “Please, please don’t kill me.” Theon checked the chamber, because Rodrik and Maron had taught him how to assemble and dismantle a gun before they’d been shot themselves by a rival family. One bullet left. He leveled it at the guy’s temple, and in that instant they both knew he had the power to end this fucker’s life.**

“You’re better than I imagined,” the guy said, both hands in Theon’s hair. Where had the gun gone and when? “You know, I took you for a crier, but you’re…umf, you’ve impressed me so far. I may even let you go after this.”

 _Keep him happy_.

“You might want to work up some tears before you go to the police. You tell them what really happened…you didn’t fight back, you didn’t scream or kick or call for help, you were so quick to jump on a stranger’s dick…” He leaned his head forward as he began rutting in earnest. “Ah, but you’re not going to go to the police, are you? No. Because we both know you really wanted this, deep down. You’ve always fantasized about some big guy taking you in a dirty alleyway. I knew you were that type when you refused my invitation to come home with me. That’s the only explanation I could think of for why you would take my drinks and then spit on my hospitality like that.”

Theon didn’t say anything. He wasn’t even really _doing_ anything anymore, just riding in the most passive sense. He couldn’t tell if it had really stopped hurting or if he’d simply blocked out all physical sensation at this point. He couldn’t tell.

When the guy was done, he shoved Theon off, stood, zipped up his fly, and put the gun back into his coat jacket. And just like that, it was gone. The threat of death had vanished. Theon breathed out for the first time in what felt like hours. The guy smoothed out his hair. He might have said something; Theon wasn’t listening anymore. He’d gotten through. He’d live.

The guy walked away, whistling to himself. Theon waited until he had been gone for several seconds for reaching for his clothes. Putting them back on was even more numbing than removing them had been, but he managed. Nothing had been ripped or torn, and the only damage was wetness from where they’d laid on the dirty ground. Would anyone believe that he’d just been in a life-or-death struggle? He hardly believed it himself.

Slowly, he began limping home. Maybe he’d go to the police tomorrow. Maybe not. Maybe he’d call Asha and ask her what he should do. He didn't especially want her to know but...he had no ideas of his own. Just that he was glad he was alive and didn’t want to think about it anymore.


	8. Trembling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bluesargeant said: 
> 
> _Okay, so I debated whether to request a darkfic or lightfic but my trash side won and here I am. How about a fic where Theon is serving people drinks at a huge banquet with hundreds of people (in total Reek mode) and he's so clumsy and shaky that he spills some wine on a very important lord and Ramsay punishes him there and then in front of everyone?_ c:
> 
> Featuring a cameo from the Telltale Games Game of Thrones...game. That's a lot of game.

His hands trembled all the time. From weakness, from hunger, from fear, from pain. How did Lord Ramsay expect him to do this? The answer became clear when the wine finally sloshed over the side of the pitcher and onto Lord Whitehill’s fine white clothing. Whitehill cursed, and Ramsay…Ramsay just smiled. So that was the answer. He _didn’t_ expect Reek to do it. He never had.

“This is unacceptable,” Lord Whitehill said. “Simply unacceptable. First you bring this…this creature out in civilized company and then you…” Sputtering he turned to Ramsay, who was still grinning and not being at all covert about it. “I demand compensation.”

“Of course, my Lord,” Ramsay said.

A small silence had gathered around them, lords and ladies who had previously been more interested in their own idle chatter. Reek shrank away from the table, holding the now half-empty pitcher against his body. “Forgive me, m’Lord.” His hands trembled.

Ramsay pushed back his chair, and Reek cringed. But Ramsay was just standing to help Lord Whitehill mop the wine from his jerkin, offering his own linen napkin for the job. “I’ll have the maid prepare clean clothes for you. In the meantime, please allow my manservant to apologize for his clumsiness.”

“ _Apologize_?” Whitehill scoffed.

“It is my fault, of course, for obliging him.” Ramsay clucked his tongue. “But he was so excited when he learned he’d be tending this banquet tonight. As you can imagine, he doesn’t get out very much.”

“For the best, I think,” Whitehill said.

“Sorry, m’Lord,” Reek repeated.

Ramsay pulled a passing maid out of line, grabbing her roughly by the arm. “My dear, would you bring something to refill poor Reek’s pitcher?” He leaned in and whispered in her ear.

Her face went slightly pale. “Yes, m’Lord. Right away.” With a crude curtsey, she hurried off to do her task.

Some of the lords and ladies followed her with their gazes, and even Lord Whitehill sat back down with a curious expression on his face. “What is this?” he asked. “You’re going to allow him to continue serving?”

 “Please, master,” Reek agreed, “allow me to go back to my cell. I don’t wish to ruin your father’s banquet further.”

“You know I’m a very generous man, Reek. I want to give you the chance to atone for your clumsiness.” Ramsay turned suddenly and grabbed his wrist. Reek squeaked and nearly dropped the pitcher. “It’s your hands, isn’t it, Reek? They tremble all the time. Here, let’s secure that pitcher so you can carry it easier.”

“Don’t tell me you’re going to have the creature try to pour my wine again. I won’t allow it.”

Ramsay didn’t answer, instead forced Reek’s hands around the rounded base of the pitcher. “There, that’s better.” He took his wine-soaked napkin and began binding Reek’s hands to the cold pewter, wrapping the cloth over and under and pulling it tight. “Lord Whitehill, can I use your napkin as well?” He took it without asking.

“This is outrageous,” Whitehill sputtered. “Your father can’t seat me next to his bastard and then allow this spectacle to unfold in his hall.” He made to stand.

Ramsay’s lip twisted, and Reek wanted to crawl under the table and hide.

“Of course, you’re excused to have yourself cleaned up,” Ramsay said slowly, “but then you’ll miss the best part of this…what did you call it, a spectacle? I like to think of it as a lesson myself.”

He finished tying off the second napkin, so tight that Reek could hardly even twitch his fingers, even over the trembling of his hands. He had to admit, though, that the pitcher was much better supported, and the bindings took most of the pressure off of his missing and flayed fingers. Still, he didn’t like being tied this way and wondered how he was supposed to continue to pour wine if he couldn’t properly tilt the pitcher.

 “Hold your hands out,” Ramsay instructed, and Reek did. His hands shook terribly, and the wine in the pitcher sloshed around inside. None spilled. There wasn’t enough left to spill. “Good, just like that. Now…”

There was a clattering as the maid returned from the kitchens, carrying a pot that was obviously too large for her to handle. She had an odd shuffling gate as she walked, as if hurrying while also paying utmost care to the contents within. A great deal of steam billowed up from the pot, obscuring her face. “I got it as quickly as I could, m’lord,” she said, “just like you said. It shouldn’t have cooled too—”

Ramsay took the pot from her, grasping the wooden handles and hoisting it from her grasp as easily as if it were a child’s toy. “Thank you,” he muttered, and that was her cue for dismissal. Ramsay turned to Reek. “Hold out the pitcher and let me refill it for you.”

Reek stared, first at the cast iron pot, then at the pewter pitcher in his hands. Back at Winterfell, he had sometimes heard Mikken the blacksmith—dead now—deride pewter and tin as a “fancy lord’s metal,” good only for making cutlery and children’s toys. “It melts too easily,” he’d say, smashing his hammer against a rod of red-hot iron in a spray of sparks. “Even sufficiently hot water can melt it.”

“My Lord—”

Ramsay _glared_ at him.

“Y-yes, m’Lord.” Reek held the pitcher out, arms shaking.

“Easy, Reek. This water is quite hot. You don’t want to spill it all over yourself now.”

“Yes, m’lord.” He tried to steady himself. Not to much avail.

Ramsay grinned and set the pot against the pitcher’s lip, then tipped the contents with surprising care from one container to the other. The water was steaming but it wasn’t bubbling, so maybe it wasn’t hot enough to actually melt the pewter. Still very hot. Reek could feel the heat of it as Ramsay slowly filled the pitcher higher and higher.

It filled the pitcher, sending heat into the metal. Painfully hot. Unbearably hot, and growing more so by the second. By the time the pitcher was two-thirds full, Reek realized that he couldn’t keep holding it, not matter how badly he wanted to please Master Ramsay. He instinctively tried to pull his hands away, but they were, of course, still bound.

“Stop jerking around, Reek.”

“Master, it—it’s getting too hot, I can’t—”

“Hold it steady!” Ramsay snapped.

But Reek couldn’t. The palms of his hands were beginning to blister under the heat, and he swore he could hear the sizzling of it in his ears. He yanked back, trying to pull himself free from his binds, and as he did so, the water from the pot splashed over his fingers and knuckles. He howled. His movements became frantic, no longer human but animalistic in his need to stop the burning. The water from the pitcher sloshed over the side, hitting him square on the chest.

He fell to the floor, writhing. Eventually, all of his thrashing loosened the ties and the pitcher rolled out of his hands. He lay there, staring at his bright red palms covered with yellowish-pink blisters. It hurt to even so much as twitch his fingers, every trembling movement more like flaying than a burn.

“Reek.”

He became aware of his surroundings again, as the panicking animal in him faded away. Someone was laughing at him. Lots of people were laughing at him. And Master Ramsay…he was staring down at him with _that_ look, the one that Reek couldn’t decide meant he was pleased or displeased.

“I apologize, Lord Whitehill,” Ramsay said, not looking at the man. “It seems my manservant is simply too clumsy. I’ll give him twenty lashes for his incompetence.”

Reek hung his head and tried to still the trembling of his hands.


	9. Holding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clexa said: 
> 
> _I'd like to see a watersports fic where Ramsay has been forcing Theon to hold it in all day and then both Reek and Ramsay are called before Roose and a bunch of other Northern Lords and Ladies (because they wanna see what's become of Balon's heir) and poor Reek ends up peeing himself in front of them all._
> 
> If you're interested in more like this, check out [Emptied](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3629583).

Reek gulped the water, breaking only to breathe in through his nose. His tongue, the back of his throat, every inch of him ached as he quenched himself.

“What do we say, Reek?”

Immediately, he pulled the pitcher from his lips and, eyes downcast, said, “Thank you, m’Lord.”

“You may continue.”

Reek drank it down to the dregs, then turned it upside down and held his tongue out as the last few droplets fell from the pointed lip. His stomach sloshed, so full that it had become distended somewhere along the way. If he didn’t move too suddenly, he could almost pretend it had done something for his hunger as well.

Ramsay took the pitcher from his hands and patted his head. “Thirsty, weren’t you?”

“Yes, m’Lord.”

“You could have had this water much sooner if you’d just done what I asked in the first place.”

Reek’s face burned with shame at what he’d eventually agreed to do for the water. It didn’t matter now, though. It was done. The water was in him, and he would never again try to outlast Ramsay when he asked for something.

Without much warning, the cell door opened with a clang, and Damon appeared. “Ramsay?”

Ramsay scowled and whirled on him. “What is it? Can’t you see I’m in the middle of something?”

Damon’s eyes took in the scene—Reek’s nakedness, the flush of his face and debauched state of his body—and nodded. “You might want to get him cleaned up. Your father requests both of you upstairs.”

“What for?”

“He didn’t say. But he’s waiting in the great hall for you.”

Ramsay sighed in frustration and dropped the pitcher to the ground. “Tell him we’ll be up shortly.” As Damon scurried from the room, Ramsay turned to Reek. “I suppose you should at least get dressed. No one wants to see that mess between your legs.”

Reek nodded, and reached for his tattered rags. They were really as simple as could be, shapeless and easy enough for a cripple like him to get into. Still, his hands shook as he tried to get into his pants, one leg at a time.

“Hurry up, would you?”

Reek tried. He had managed to get one leg in, but the other—his foot wouldn’t—it was caught—

Ramsay growled, grabbed the hem on the pants, and gave them a sharp yank. They tore at the knee but left enough to hide the worst parts of his body. “You really are useless,” Ramsay grumbled as he pulled Reek’s belt—really just a bit of corded rope—tight.

It cinched against his distended stomach, and Reek moaned at the sudden…urgency it caused.

Ramsay looked up at him in surprise. “What’s wrong with _you_?”

“M’Lord, I…I need to…”

Ramsay cocked his head. Experimentally, he placed a hand over the bulge of Reek’s belly and pressed in. Reek moaned louder and crossed his legs. Understanding came to Ramsay’s face and he grinned. “Hold it.”

“M’Lord.”

“I said hold it.” He gave the belt an extra pull before tying it off.

The pressure from Reek’s belly moved downwards, burning from the inside. His…that space between his legs…it always burned, it always hurt, but coupled with the mounting heaviness from within, it was enough to bring tears prickling to his eyes. “Yes, m’Lord.”

He hurried to get into his shirt as well. The sooner they went upstairs and found out what Lord Roose wanted, the sooner he would be given leave to relieve himself. His hands were still trembling, and though it took an extra few seconds to get his arms through the sleeves, Ramsay did not offer to help him again. Instead, once he was fully dressed—as fully dressed as he was ever allowed to be, at least—Ramsay grabbed his arm and yanked him along.

The sudden movement caused his insides to tense. “M’Lord, wait, I…”

But Ramsay didn’t wait. He urged Reek to follow behind him at a brisk pace. Reek did his best to keep up. His gait was shuffling at the best of times, but at the moment, afraid to take too-wide steps, he stumbled enough that Ramsay more dragged than led. The stairs were even worse. If he walked on his accord, every upwards step sloshed the water in his stomach; if Ramsay was forced to drag him, his kidneys were battered against the jutting edge of the steps. Reek did his best to move on his own, but halfway up, he felt a telltale wetness staining the inside of his pants and quickly clamps his legs together to stem the tide.

“Please, m’Lord, I need to…I need to piss.”

“I swear, Reek, you’re worse than a woman,” Ramsay huffed.

Reek whimpered. He had noticed a change since…since Ramsay had taken…it was harder now, because he couldn’t always feel what was happening down there. Sometimes he didn’t even realized he’d released himself until he felt the immense relief. Which was fine down in the dungeons. Well, not fine, but…a humiliation only Ramsay and the Boys were privy to. If he released himself in front of Roose, where others could see…

He didn’t know how he managed it, but somehow they made it to the top of the stairs, through several hallways where servants gave them a wide berth, and to the great hall. Even from the end of the hall, Reek could hear the buzzing of many voices within, and his legs went soft under him. At first he feared he had pissed himself, but no, it was just his knees slamming against the cold stone of the floor. He couldn’t get up, though. He could not take another step towards all those voices…all those people.

Ramsay snorted in disgust and pulled him to his feet again. There was nothing for it. He continued along, compelled by the sheer force that was Ramsay Bolton.

Just as he’d guessed, there were many people within the great room, some of whom seemed to have been expecting them. They turned at their entrance, and Reek saw fancy clothing, coifed hair, bejeweled fingers and throats and ears. They were, the lot of them—somewhere between a dozen and a score—nobles. He recognized some faces, men he’d seen at Robb’s war councils. Shame had been his constant companion since his fall, but he was still surprised at how sharp and new it could feel at times. He cringed back against Ramsay.

“You finally saw fit to join us.” Roose strode forward, radiating cold disapproval.

Ramsay’s spine stiffened, and he stood up straight. “You didn’t tell me there was company.”

“These gentlemen and ladies,” Roose began, motioning to them with a smooth gesture of his hand, “had heard some rumors, that we were holding a certain prisoner of war here at the Dreadfort.”

A man dressed in Manderly blue and green came forward. “If you have the Greyjoy turncloak here, I demand you turn him over so that justice can be done to the Starks.”

Reek felt a hand clamp on his shoulder. “There’s no one here by that name,” Ramsay growled, drawing him in near, almost protectively.

“Forgive my bastard,” Roose said. “His base blood causes him to be a compulsive liar.” The older man grabbed Reek’s free and pulled him free from Ramsay’s grasp. Reek felt like he was floundering, torn between two currents as he was led forward to stand before the gathered men and women. Their faces creased in disgust as soon as his smell hit them. “This is the turncloak,” Roose said. “Theon Greyjoy, taken after he burned Winterfell.”

“No.” _I didn’t burn Winterfell. It wasn’t me. It was you. It was your son._

Roose looked at him.

“I’m not…that person,” Reek answered. If he could get them to see that he wasn’t Theon Greyjoy, maybe Roose would dismiss him. The need for relief was painful now, burning hotly in that shameful hole in his body. He didn’t know how much longer he could hold it.

The Manderly man scowled. “Are you japing with me, Bolton? Theon Greyjoy is a _young_ man, not some hobbled…cripple.”

“My bastard may have damaged him a bit,” Roose said, “trying to extract information, but I assure you, this is none of than Balon Greyjoy’s heir.”

Reek clamped his teeth together to keep another miserable moan from escaping. His thighs quivered with the effort to keep his legs locked.

“Remember Donella?” one of the noble ladies said, hand on her chest as if the memory made her ill. “If that’s how they treat blood by marriage, I have no trouble believing they could turn a healthy young man into _that_.”

“Aye,” the man standing next to her agreed. “But still, who’s to say this is truly the turncloak and not some imposter they brought up from their dungeons. The Starks demand justice that only the blood of the turncloak can satisfy.” His eyes lingered on Roose as he spoke.

Reek tucked his knees together. Why must they quibble like this? The Manderlys wanted Theon dead. Theon was already dead. If killing Reek would make them feel better, then fine. So be it. But God, be done with it already!

“What’s wrong with him?” the first Manderly, the one Theon vaguely recognized but could not name, asked. “Is he suffering from palsy?”

“Did Theon Greyjoy suffer from palsy?” someone asked. “That would be a way to confirm.”

“No, he didn’t,” someone else said. “At least, not that Ned Stark ever mentioned. This man is clearly an imposter. I believe Bolton is trying to pull the hood over our eyes.”

“Take care,” Roose said coldly, “with how you address your liege lord.”

“I laid eyes on Ned’s hostage once,” an older woman said. She grasped Reek’s chin and forced his eyes upwards to meet hers. “Aye, I recognize the color of his eyes.”

“Once?” Another man grabbed Reek’s chin away from her and turned his face again. “I don’t know about the eyes, but I saw Greyjoy at Robb Stark’s side every day during the war, and I tell you, he was much taller than this creature. There is no way the Boltons could have managed that trick.”

_Stop_ , Reek wanted to beg of them. He could barely concentrate on what they were saying now.  There was only the searing heat and pressure.

“No, I tell you,” someone else was saying, “there’s an easy enough way to check, if you’re willing to spend the time to ensure we have the right man—”

“Not a man.”

“What?” The man obviously hadn’t heard him, because he was leaning in closer.

“I’m not a man,” Reek repeated, louder.

And now it was too late. He felt the warmth and wetness spreading outwards before he felt the relief in his belly. It soaked through his pants and ran down his legs, so that even though the man hadn’t caught on at first, he certainly knew now. He jumped back with a disgusted cry of, “Shit!” And as the piss pooled around Reek’s bare feet, it still kept coming and coming, and nothing he could do would slow it, so he didn’t even try. He stood there, watching the puddle grow larger and larger, detached from everything around him.

_Is this real_? _Have I truly just pissed myself in front of these lords and ladies_? It seemed like something Reek would do. Reek had no shame left.

“Father, you’ve upset him.” And then, Ramsay was by his side, pulling on his arm, giving him direction. “All this talk to Theon Greyjoy. I already told you, no such person exists here. Come, Reek.” He steered him away, and Roose let him go. “You would like to go back to the dungeons now, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, m’Lord,” Reek agreed. “Thank you, m’Lord.”


	10. Rerecording

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> James just wants a follow-up to the "Recording" chapter. Preferably something taking place before that one. Here you go!
> 
> It's a prequel! It's a sequel! It's a PRESQUEL!

There were days when Brienne wouldn’t trade her job for the world. No amount of pay raise or promotions would ever come close to the looks on her case files’ faces when justice was served to them. Then there were days when she wished that she had never gone into the police force, that she wasn’t one of these people who was compelled into this line of work by her need to help others—especially when half of her coworkers were in it for the power it brought.

Today was one of the latter. Familiarizing herself with this new case meant watching every video, from beginning to end, while her partner watched over her shoulder and chewed on his nails.

The interview beforehand had not been pleasant either.

_“Ms. Greyjoy, you’re sure this is your brother?”_

_“Positive. Same tattoos and everything…what’s left of them, that is.”_

_“And how long has your brother been missing?”_

_“Almost a year now. I mean, I haven’t had contact with him in over a year. He ran away from home when he was fifteen, lived with a friend for a few years. They had a falling out, and he disappeared off the grid after that.”_

_“And how did you come to find these videos?”_

_“Anonymous email. I’ve been over this with your supervisor. No one could put a trace on the email or the website.”_

_“And you’re absolutely sure there’s no way this could be…faked?”_

_“Watch the videos, then tell me they’re faked.”_

“Ready?” Jaime asked.

“No.” Brienne took a deep breath. “But I guess we need to start somewhere.” She let the breath out and hit play on the first video.

The quality was poor, grainy but also poorly lit. A dark room with a single, bare bulb casting a circle of light on the floor and off the concrete walls. Somewhere off camera, a door opened, followed by heavy boots on a staircase. A man—too dark to make out any features except that he was a big guy—walked into the frame, carrying a limp form over his shoulder. He knelt, flipped the figure onto the floor. The figure was obviously unconscious, because he—it was also a man, judging from the clothing, though slenderer—didn’t make a sound. The first man propped him up against the wall, ran a hand through his messy hair, and left again.

Static.

Jump cut to the other man waking up, getting onto his hands and knees, looking around the room. Realizing where he was. “Hello?” Getting shakily to his feet. “Hello? Is anyone there?”

More static.

Another cut. The man was no longer on screen, but by the sound of pounding on wood, he had found the staircase and the door. “Fucker, let me out! Let me out now!” More cursing, more pounding.

Static.

The man, curled up in the corner. It was impossible to tell how much time had passed, since there was no marker on the camera, but he was definitely more disheveled than he’d been earlier. It must have been several hours, if not days. At the sound of the door opening, he looked up sharply. Jumped to his feet. Ran off camera and was shoved back on by the man from before. “You fucker, you can’t keep me here!”

He tried to attack the other man, who knocked him down easily with a backhanded slap. “Sit down and shut up.” The man’s voice was heavily distorted.

“You can’t do this to me,” the thinner man continued to argue. “I have friends who know where I am. Powerful friends. And when they find out what you’ve done—”

He cringed back as the man knelt and grabbed his face. And turned him to look straight into the camera. It was still too dark to properly make out any features, but Brienne could see the glint of light off his wide, frightened eyes. “See that?” the man with the distorted voice said, pointing to the camera. “The whole world can see you. I’m going to make a star out of you.”

“Pause,” Jaime said, and Brienne did. Her partner leaned in close, squinting. “Do you think we could run some facial recognition on the big guy, there?”

“Not a lot to go on,” Brienne admitted, “but I’ll see what we can do.” She took a screenshot of the image of the two of them looking into the camera, then hit play again.

Static again.

The next cut was an extreme close-up of the thinner man from a slightly lowered angle. He had dark, handsome features, the way Asha Greyjoy had described her brother. His hair was a mess and he had a few days’ worth of scruff growth on his chin. His eyes would look straight into the camera, then rove somewhere else, as if expecting the other man’s arrival at any moment. “My name is Theon Greyjoy,” he whispered, sounding out of breath. “I don’t know how long I’ve been down here, but I’ve been kidnapped by a man named—”A loud beep silenced the name. “He’s holding me down here. He’s been beating me, withholding food. I don’t know what he wants. Ransom? I don’t…” He took a shuddering breath, and a tear broke free from his dark lashes. “Please, if you see this, send help. Send help, please.”

Static.

The next cut was a similar close-up, though not so extreme. The man, now confirmed to be Theon Greyjoy, was staring blankly into the camera. “Theon Greyjoy is a spoiled brat,” he said in a monotone. The only movement was the back-and-forth of his eyes. Reading something off of a prompter, perhaps? “He is an ungrateful cunt and deserves to die. By the time this video is uploaded, Theon Greyjoy will be dead.”

The screen went blank as the video ended.

“That’s the _first_ one?” Jaime asked, incredulously.

Brienne went to the next.

The same room.

Theon Greyjoy, lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling. He might have been dead for how still he was. He _might_ have been dead, except there were many, many more videos to go after this. He twitched to life when the door closed and the stairs creaked. Sat up and scrambled into the far corner as far as he could go. “Stay away from me.”

The mystery man, the one with the bleeped-out name, came into view once more and stood there, looming over Theon. Staring at him through the slits in a ski mask. There went their chances for further ID possibilities.

“Please.” Theon’s unaltered voice jumped. “What do you want from me?”

The man simply held out a finger and pointed it straight at him. Then came forward on heavy boots. In this line of work, Brienne had seen enough snuff films to guess what would happen next, but apparently Theon hadn’t. He continued to beg and bargain and occasionally even threaten as the mystery man dragged him out of the corner and began tearing the clothes from his body. He kicked out and screamed, but the previous video was evidence enough that he’d been starved and sleep deprived into weakness.

The man finished stripping him, then pulled him this way and that, glancing at the camera, then at something on the other side of the room. Positioning him, Brienne realized, to get the best shot. Theon tried to crawl away, and each time the man would drag him back, until he got so frustrated that he pinned his victim in place by flipping him on his stomach and slamming his face into the concrete. That way—one hand on Theon’s head, the other going for the zipper of his fly—he checked one last time and, satisfied with the position, took himself out of his pants.

Brienne and Jaime watched. They watched as Theon was raped. Heard his screaming, his sobbing, his pleading. They watched it all, Brienne with her fingernails digging into the palms of her hand. She’d seen this sort of thing before, and always, always it made her physically sick. She wished she could be immune to this sort of thing by now, but the truth was, the day she stopped feeling anything would be the day she hung up her policewoman’s cap.

When it was over, the camera lingered on Theon’s broken and bloodied body for a long, long time. The man got up and left, and still the camera continued to roll. Theon lay there, cheek pressed to the concrete, and cried. The video ended after five minutes of that.

Jaime let out a long breath. “Next.”

Brienne’s hands were shaking, but she went on.

The next video was the exact same thing. As in, the exact scene they’d just witnessed, now from a different angle. Another camera. That must have been what the man was checking for. This one was a close-up view of Theon’s face, close enough to see the cuts and bruises on his skin, a missing front tooth when his mouth opened wide enough to reveal it, the snot and crust in his nose and eyes. Brienne hit the pause button before it had gone more than fifteen seconds and looked over at Jaime.

“I think we can skip it,” he said.

The officer in her told her they should be thorough. Perhaps the camera had caught something from this angle that the other hadn’t. For instance, she could see a little bit more of the room this way. Not much, and not much that would be useful, she guessed. Just more concrete. It was a pretty large space. Theon had said it was a basement, so whoever their mystery man was, he must have a large house to go with such a large basement. Or a bunker, perhaps?

She wrote that down on her legal pad and then reached to hit the next button again.

To her surprise, Jaime stopped here. “No, wait.” He leaned in, squinting as he had before. “Play it, just for a few seconds.”

Brienne obliged.

“There,” Jaime said, not two seconds in. He pointed to Theon’s hands. Brienne had been so focused on his face, she hadn’t even bothered to look. He seemed to be making some sort of gesture, albeit one she couldn’t decipher. “He’s trying to communicate something,” Jaime stated the obvious.

Theon was making rapid movements with his fingers and hands, right up until the point when the mystery man… They watched all the way to the end again, but the gestures never made a reappearance, even as Theon lay there on the ground for the five minutes afterwards. Possibly in shock and unable to move.

“Mark it,” Jaime said. “Someone might be able to understand it.”

Brienne did.

Unfortunately, from there the videos only got worse, as she’d known they would. They watched a video where Theon had nails driven into his feet with a hammer, and another where the mystery man flayed his index finger almost down to the bone. The hand gestures never appeared again after that. They watched as Theon was beaten, whipped, cut, burned, raped. Over and over again. Tied to a crossbeam, shackled hand and foot to a rusty bedframe, bound to a chair, shoved in a dog kennel. Fingers removed with bold cutters, toes removed with a buzz saw, teeth removed with plies. As the videos progressed, he became thinner and thinner, like they were watching him waste away right before their eyes. One video was only thirty seconds long, and it consisted entirely of a bowl of dog food being shoved in front of Theon’s face, followed by Theon devouring it rabidly.

As Theon became meeker, the mystery man became bolder, speaking more often—though always with the distorted voice—and even addressing the viewer directly. Apparently he had set up a forum of some sort, where viewers could write in and vote on what he would do next. Brienne’s gut threatened to spill the morning’s cheap coffee all over the monitor, but instead she kept it down and wrote a note to look over the forum logs later. If possible, she would track down every user and bring them to justice as well. Let the courts figure out the charges later.

The final video involved a castration, and when the end finally came, Brienne stood up, ran to the bathroom, and did, indeed, empty her stomach into one of the toilets. She came back, shame-faced. She should have a stronger constitution. She should be able to handle this sort of thing. How could she be expected to help these people if she couldn’t be strong enough to even _witness_ what they’d had to go through.

Jaime patted her on the back. It was awkward but affectionate, and she appreciated it. “You want to take the afternoon off, champ?” he said in that way that was usually so sardonic. “I can take the relevant stuff down to forensics. See if they can make anything of those hand movements we saw in the early stuff.” None of the later stuff had really panned out.

Brienne shook her head. “No, there’s someone I want to ask first.”

 

***

 

Asha Greyjoy had a hard look about her, not a woman you wanted to mess with. She would have made a good police officer, Brienne thought. She was intimidating in her intensity, if not her stature, as she stared at the two of them. “You found my brother,” she stated. “That’s the only reason I can imagine for why you would call me back in so quickly.”

“Actually…” Jaime cleared his throat.

“We had a few more questions for you,” Brienne finished.

Asha looked from one to the other, seated across from them on the stainless steel table. “And these were questions you couldn’t ask over the phone?”

“Not exactly.” Jaime spun his laptop around. “Tell me, Ms. Greyjoy, have you seen this video?”

Brienne noticed the way Asha tried to school her features, but she was obviously upset, even just by the still image. “Do you expect me to have watched them all?” she snorted at last.

“I’m going to show you a few seconds,” Jaime said.

Asha made to stand. “I really don’t think I need to see it.”

“And I think you do.” Brienne moved towards her. “Please, Ms. Greyjoy, we think your brother was trying to communicate something to us, using some method his captor obviously didn’t recognize. This may be the key to finding him.”

The two women glared at each other for a few seconds.

Finally, Asha nodded and sat down.

Without saying a word, Jaime hit play. Though Brienne couldn’t see the feed from where she was standing, she still cringed at the noises of distress.

Asha’s face turned gradually paler, and once again she burst from her seat. “It’s sign language,” she announced.

Brienne and Jaime exchanged looks. Jaime was quick to hit the pause button before continuing. No need to continue to video if Asha had already found what they were looking for. “Sign language?” he asked. “Does Theon speak…er, know sign language?”

“He and I used to babysit for this kid on our street sometimes,” Asha said. “Wex Pyke. He was mute and could only communicate through sign language. Tried to teach it to us. Theon was also so slow and he didn’t really take to it, but…but he could do the alphabet.” She put a hand to her head, as if trying to steady herself. “God, I can’t believe I’m asking this, but could you play it again?”

Jaime rewound the video to the beginning, while Brienne hurried to fetch Asha a pen and paper to write down what she could. They had to play the video three times—thankfully, not in its entirety—before they got the message Theon Greyjoy had been trying to send with his hands.

B-O-L-T-O-N.


	11. Seeing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Luth asked: 
> 
> _Can I request a dark fanfic where Theon saw the hallucination/ghost of people he wronged (those 2 boys, Sir Rodrik, Robb etc.) after being tortured heavily by Ramsay and finally lost his final defense and become reek completely?_
> 
> Another Fanfic Snow, with elements from both show and book 'verses.
> 
> I don't write in present tense that much, for forgive any errors. ヾ(_ _*)

He doesn’t know who this person is anymore. Whenever he catches a glimpse of himself in a reflection—a puddle of water, the surface of a blade—the person looking back at him is not Theon Greyjoy. Ramsay says he is Reek, but whenever this person agrees with him, Ramsay thrashes him and says, “Don’t say it unless you believe it!”

This person doesn’t know how he’s ended up with Theon Greyjoy’s memories, but somehow he has. And sometimes the memories talk back. When it is very quiet, and he’s spent hours on the saltire or locked in a very small, very dark room. That’s when they’re loudest, when he is most quiet.

He feels like a lord—a lord of pain and human filth—hearing his subjects bring their grievances before him.

Today, the miller family comes first, the two little boys with their tarred and burnt bodies, the husband and wife with their throats slit. Theon Greyjoy didn’t see how they were killed—didn’t want to see—and so this person has decided their throats must have been slit. A quick way, at least. Did they die first, or did the boys die first? Did the boys have to watch their parents murdered, or did the parents have to watch their children murdered? Which was the less worse option?

“Does it matter?” the wife says, holding her boys close. They tuck their tarred faces into her skirts. Theon Greyjoy knows her. He fucked her once or twice. He remembers the lines and planes of her face, her dirty blonde hair. And because he remembers, this person remembers too. “The high and mighty Prince Theon of the Iron Islands takes what he wants, doesn’t he?” Her eyes are bloodshot as she stares at him. “ _Doesn’t he_?”

“That person…” This person can’t bring himself to even say the name. “He’s dead.”

“What is dead may never die,” the husband says, and Theon Greyjoy doesn’t remember his face, so he looks like Dagmer, with his slashed-open face. “How much time did my family’s death buy you? How long were you able to play at being Prince of Winterfell while the worms and flies feasted our bodies?”

Was he? Was he Prince of Winterfell, once upon a time? A long time ago, it must have been. Was that who this person was? He tried to recall Theon’s memories, but there was hardly anything there. It must have truly been a long, long time ago.

The husband takes his wife by the shoulders, and she gathers her sons together, and they shuffle off through the wall. The children leave ashy footprints behind them. This person can smell the lingering scent of tar in the air.

Followed by the smell of rain and mud, and there is Ser Rodrik, head tucked in the crook of his arm. Theon Greyjoy had a brother named Rodrik, and an uncle, but that’s neither here nor there. Ser Rodrik Cassel is standing in front of the saltire now, watching him from his disembodied head. “Gods help you, Theon Greyjoy. Now you are truly lost.” His last words. Theon Greyjoy had _asked_ if he had any last words.

“That person is dead!” this person protests, straining against his bonds. The pain in his arms and legs in unimaginable, screaming out for any sort of give.

Ser Rodrik continues to stare at him. And not say a word.

“That person is dead,” this person repeats, quieter. “That person…Theo…him, he’s dead. I’m not him. I’m…”

“I might have been able to save him,” Ser Rodrik finally says, after this person has wept himself into absolute exhaustion.

“Him?”

“If I had lived,” the old man continues, “I might have made it to the Twins in time. Would it have made a difference, one old man against an army?” He shrugs his shoulders, a disconcerting gesturing when no head is attached to said shoulders. “Who can say? But I could have _been_ there with him. Instead, my head was mounted on a pike so that you could cling to Winterfell by your fingernails. And you…where were you when he needed you?”

“When he…?” this person repeats.

A sudden sound causes him to look up. It’s coming from behind him. He feels a warm breath in his ear, and a growling voice says, “Theon.”

This person shudders. Ser Rodrik is gone now, and he is alone with this…voice. “Who…are you?”

The sound of footsteps as the person comes around the saltire. The breathing is heavy, beastlike. This person closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to see. He shouldn’t have asked.

“Look at me, Theon.”

“Please, I’m not that person.”

“Look at me!” A harsh bark. “Don’t you want to see what they did to me? I know you’ve heard them talking about it, what they did to my body. Don’t you want to see with your own eyes?”

This person shakes his head. “No.”

“No?” the voice growls. “You don’t want to see what you’ve done?”

“I-it wasn’t me. _I_ didn’t kill you. I _never_ wanted you hurt.”

“That’s why you betrayed me? Turned your back on me? Killed my men and allowed me to think my brothers were dead? You never wanted to _hurt_ me?” The voice laughed. It didn’t sound human. “I might still be alive if it weren’t for you. No, you didn’t put the knife through my heart, but you may as well have. And now…now you don’t even have the _balls_ to look at what you’ve done?”

This person shakes his head.

“Look at me, Theon Greyjoy!”

“I’m not Theon Greyjoy!” This person shrieks it at the top of his lungs. “I’m Reek! I’m Reek! Just…just Reek.” He tapers off, hanging his head. “Reek, rhymes with weak. Reek can’t _do_ anything.”

He waits an interminable moment for the other to speak, but he never does.

Slowly, Reek opens his eyes. There is no one standing in front of him. He is alone.

He laughs in relief.


	12. Changing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surrealist's request: 
> 
> _I always wanted something where Theon totally falls for his dashing saviour (nevermind that Ramsay set him up). So based more on the TV show, but after Ramsay helps Theon escape for the first time, and then 'saves' him again from his own men, perhaps Theon is so grateful to his saviour that he seduces him. Ramsay rather likes how eager Theon is and manages to convince him to come back with him during the afterglow (it's not like Theon ever makes healthy decisions for himself), but once they are back and Ramsay is reporting to his father, Ramsay's boys didn't yet get the memo to be nice to their new 'prisoner'. They beat/rape/torture him as per their old orders, taunt him about Ramsay's old plans for him. Poor Ramsay has to salvage the situation._

Things happen. Plans change.

Ramsay liked to think he could roll with the punches—and there were always punches. For instance, he’d entertained the notion of letting his men fuck Theon Greyjoy into the dirt, _then_ saving him. But in the end, he went with his original plan and shot them all dead. The look of betrayal on their faces had been hilarious, mostly because they truly hadn’t realized that everyone was fair game for the Bastard of Bolton.

He was glad for the decision later, because Theon had been just ever so grateful. They’d set up camp and, terrified and shaking, he’d crawled to Ramsay’s side and whispered in his ear, “I want to repay you.”

That hadn’t been in the plans, but Ramsay allowed him, offering only weak protests of, “I can’t let you. You’re a lord, a Prince, and I’m a…”

“Please,” Theon begged, so, so sweetly, fumbling with the laces of Ramsay’s breeches. His hands shook, and the fingers where his men had pried off the nails flinched whenever they came into contract with the rough material.

Ramsay had taken Theon Greyjoy for a cocksucker, but the sheer enthusiasm as he went about his work was truly something to behold. Ramsay idly wondered how many cocks he’d sucked before. It couldn’t have been _too_ many, since he was still clumsy at times—though perhaps that could be chalked up to the circumstances at hand. Still, it was enjoyable, and when Ramsay woke up in the morning, his plans had changed.

_I’ll keep him_ , he decided as he dressed and saddled the horses. _I’ll teach him how to properly suck a cock_. He’d need to be careful about it, though. His usual methods took time, especially when he had to start from scratch. But here was a properly enthusiastic partner, already willing and eager to please him. No, his usual methods would ruin that, and he couldn’t have that.

“Lord Greyjoy,” he said as they set out, “I have something I must tell you.”

Theon looked at him warily.

“I’ve been deceiving you.”

Theon’s hands tightened on his horse’s reins. He would bolt if Ramsay didn’t explain himself quickly.

“I’m not a servant of the men who were holding you. My name is Ramsay Snow, and I am Lord Bolton’s bastard.”

Understanding and horror dawned on Theon’s face. “Lord Bolton? Roose? Then I was being held…?”

“At the Dreadfort, yes. I did say you were a long way from home, did I not?”

“Why…would you help me escape?”

“Because I do not agree with my father’s orders that you should be treated as a prisoner,” Ramsay went on, donning a look of appropriate disgust. “Especially the treatment you received on Robb Stark’s orders.”

“Robb Stark…ordered…?” His little mind was running to catch up.

“I am sorry, my Lord. I know he was like a brother to you, but it seems your past history won’t save you from the North’s wrath. But I…” He pulled his horse closer in beside Theon’s. “I wish to help you.”

Suspicion played on Theon’s face. “How?”

“I want you to come back to the Dreadfort with me.”

Suspicion turned to terror.

“Hear me out, my Lord. When I helped you the first time, I had hope that you might be able to get to the west coast and find your way back home. But my father’s men proved that you are not able to ride far enough or fast enough. However, if you come back to the Dreadfort with me, willingly, I will forge a letter from my father overriding Robb Stark’s orders. I have access to his seal, after all, and even if anybody had their doubts, they would not dare voice them.”

Theon’s eyes scanned back and forth, focusing on nothing as he considered this. “You would…not let them put me back there? In the dungeons?”

“No.” Ramsay shook his head. “I would protect you, treat you with the respect owed to a noble prisoner.” He placed a sincere hand on his heart. “I know you have no reason to trust me, but I truly fear for your safety should you choose to strike out on your own. Once they realize what has happened to the men they sent after you, they will send more, and then…”

A visible shudder ran through the other man’s frame. “I trust you,” he said. “Lead the way.”

 

***

 

In truth, no such forged letter was needed, since Theon had been tortured on Ramsay’s orders in the first place. All he needed to do was tell the Boys about the changed plans. But he still needed to make a show of it for Theon. They snuck in through one of the back entrances—though not the one leading back into the dungeons, as per his original plan—all with the utmost care.

“Stay here,” Ramsay instructed, leaving Theon in his room. Hopefully Theon would feel safe enough here to believe Ramsay really was going to forge a letter from Roose Bolton ensuring his safety.

“Um…” Theon made to speak as Ramsay began to slip out the door. “Earlier, you said you didn’t know whether my father knew I was…that you didn’t know if he’d gotten word yet, of my predicament.”

Ramsay paused, trying to remember what he’d said, exactly. “A letter was sent,” he answered at last, “but no reply has come. Yet.”

Theon nodded dejectedly.

“I will send another,” Ramsay promised, intending no such thing, “once you are safe.”

“Thank you,” Theon said meekly, drawing his knees to his chest.

Ramsay went to go tell the Boys the good news. No need to break their new guest, he was already quite tame. They would probably be waiting down in the dungeons for him, so that’s where he went to look first. All the while, he imagined all the fun he was going to have with this new pet. A kind of pet he’d never had before. All big, grateful eyes and willingness to please. First he’d teach him how to suck cock more elegantly, and then gradually introduce the idea of showing his gratitude in other ways. He could hardly contain himself at the thought of the Kraken Prince on his hands and knees, ass in the air, begging to be split in half with his savior’s big, fat cock.

He was frustrated to not find anyone in the dungeons—no one beyond the usual miserable souls, at least. He had left very specific instructions that he was heading out to help the search party find Theon Greyjoy and that they were to remain here for when he returned. Were they all on break? The ingrates. Couldn’t be relied on for anything. And now here was, wasting precious time hunting them down when he could be fucking a warm, willing mouth.

He checked the cellars to see if maybe they’d gotten into the wine and ale, but they weren’t there. He checked the kitchens to see if they were harassing the kitchen wenches, but they weren’t there either. This was quickly becoming unacceptable. Had they decided to go on a hunt without him? He’d need to think of a proper way to punish them for making him run around in search of them.

Finally, with a disgusted sigh, he gave up. He would just need to not leave Theon alone until the Boys could be informed. That worked for him. Theon, holed up in his room, completely dependent on him for safety. He could deal with that. Maybe if he drafted up the letter he’d told him he was going to send to his father, Theon would be so grateful that he’d let Ramsay fuck his ass. Was he a virgin? He couldn’t wait to find out.

He stopped by the study on the way up to his room and wrote a quick letter. Nothing fancy and full of useless platitudes towards the Ironborn and Theon himself. It wasn’t like he was actually going to send the letter. At least, not this one. No Bolton kindly asked for ransom while complimenting their hostage; they laid their demands out and expected them to be followed. Still, it would do. He rolled it up and hurried to his room, giddy as a child on his name day.

As he approached, he heard noises from inside, laughing and jeering. More than one voice. Theon was not alone in there.

He ran the remaining distance down the hall and slammed the door open. Everyone inside froze. Like a scene from a particularly debauched painting.

Damon pulled himself out of Theon’s mouth. “Hey, boss,” he said with a cheerful smile. Judging from the blood on his cock, he’d knocked a few of Theon’s teeth out. “Hope you don’t mind that we got started without you.”

Ramsay’s vision turned red. He exploded into the room, grabbed Luton and pulling him off of Theon and rounded on Damon and the other Boys, who quickly took the hint that they’d fucked up. “What are you doing?” Ramsay hissed. “What _the fuck_ do you think you’re doing?”

“We were just—”

“Get out!” Ramsay bellowed. “I’ll have you all flayed for this. Get out!”

They all hurried from the room. At least they could still take orders.

Ramsay ran to Theon’s side and fell to his knees next to him. “Gods.” His hands were legitimately shaking. Not in horror, but in anger, taking in the damage they’d done to his new pet.

He had been stripped and beaten. The bruises were so fresh that they were red. He had strips cut out of his back where he’d been flogged—Luton’s work. A trail of fresh blood on the stone floor showed he’d tried to escape, even though the wound on his injured foot had reopened. His shoulder had been dislocated, and there were the teeth Damon had knocked out, lying like a pair of dice in a pool of their own blood. Not a bad start, he had to say, and found himself getting hard. No, he could still salvage the situation. He could still work with his original plan.

“Gods, I’m—”

Theon jerked away from him. “Don’t touch me!”

Ramsay stopped, hands reaching out to help him. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry they did this to you. I’ll call the maester—”

“This was your plan along, wasn’t it? They told me, while they were…” He curled in on himself.

“I don’t know what they told you, but I promise, what they did was not on _my_ orders. I’ll have them punished, severely, for daring to lay hands on the Prince of the Iron Islands.”

“Everything that comes out of your mouth is a lie, isn’t it, _Lord_ Ramsay? _Acting_ Lord of the Dreadfort.” He seemed to be speaking to himself now, his forehead pressed to the stones as his hair fell over his face in waves. “All that stuff about wanting to protect me…bullshit. God, I can’t believe I fell for it.”

For once, Ramsay wasn’t sure what to say. The Boys had really fucked this opportunity up for him, and there didn’t seem to be any way of salvaging it.

“I should have expected as much,” Theon spat, “from a bastard.”

Ramsay clenched his fists, got to his feet, and stalked towards Theon. Theon hissed at him, like a feral cat, and began to crawl away, but he had no hope of escaping. Ramsay reached down, grabbed hold of his hair, and yanked his head up. “You’re right. I’m a bastard. A lying bastard. But I am acting Lord of the Dreadfort, and everyone here does what I tell them to. No more and no less. And you…” His free hand went for his breeches. “Are going to suck me.”

“Fuck you,” Theon said. “I’m not sucky your stunted cock.”

“You were fine sucking it when you thought I was a peasant.”

“I’d rather suck a peasant’s cock than a bastard’s.”

Ramsay snarled as he worked himself free. “I see Damon already knocked some of your teeth loose. You try to bite down on me, and I’ll knock them all out. Got it? Now open up.”

Theon clenched his jaw and stared defiantly up at him.

“Open up!” Ramsay stomped down on his injured foot, and when Theon howled in pain, he stuffed himself in.

It was one of the longest, sloppiest, and most unsatisfying mouth-fucks he’d ever had. It just went on and on, but he couldn’t work up to any state of real arousal. Theon wasn’t helping at all. While he didn’t fight back, he also didn’t participate. Gone were the eager lips, the playful tongue. Replaced by a cold, wet hole. The thing that finally set him over the edge was the feeling of Theon’s tears as they dripped over his lips and onto Ramsay’s cock.

When he was done, he pulled Theon off and shoved him to the ground, disgusted by his touch. He would eventually get that eagerness back, but he’d have to train it into him. Beat it into him. What a waste. What a Gods-damned fucking waste.


	13. Confessing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> miikkuli said: 
> 
> _How about a Harry Potter universe fic with these characters. (I can't seem to figure out if Theon would be Slytherin or Gryffindor, he does seem to fit both.) ^^ It could be in school or them as adults. There could be a little bit of magical torture, though most of the torture should be physical, even if Ramsay is magical. Heck, Ramsay could even be muggle, but that's not necessary._
> 
> I went where the inspiration took me. You're in my mind now. >:)
> 
> Also, there were some weird formatting issues with this chapter, so apologies if anything is messed up. I mean, beyond the actual story itself.

The door squeaked open. A single streak of light fell along the floor, then was quickly obscured by the hulking shape in the doorway.“Ready to confess?”

Theon lifted his head. He was weak from hunger and torture, and the collar around his neck was so very heavy, but he still lifted his head. “Fuck…you.”

The inquisitor chuckled as if he’d been expecting that answer—which he should have, given Theon had said the same thing to him four days in a row now. His boots clicked along the stones until he was standing right at Theon’s feet. Then he knelt down. “I have talked with the bishop. He says I am authorized to offer you salvation if you confess to your wrongdoings and throw off your master, Satan.”

Theon turned and spat a wad of blood onto the floor. His missing teeth had been bleeding since Inquisitor Ramsay had chiseled them away yesterday. “I cannot throw off a master I do not have.”

“Do not add lying to your list of sins.” Ramsay grabbed his chin. “I saw you, using your dark arts. With my own eyes.”

Theon laughed at that. It was the wrong thing to do, but dark arts? Summoning a patronus was a dark art? If only this idiot knew the truth, knew how Theon had been protecting him and this village. But if he admitted to being a wizard, they’d kill him. And if he didn’t admit to being a wizard, they’d continue to torture him and then kill him. There was no winning.

Slytherin had been right. He was still laughing when Ramsay grabbed his hair, hauled him to the tub of water in the back of the room, and pushed his head under. And held.

Air escaped Theon’s mouth and nose in a rapid stream of bubbles. He struggled against the force holding him under, uselessly. His mind reeled for a spell he could use, any spell. Something that would push Ramsay back or allow him to breathe underwater. Something that didn’t require a wand—his had been taken and burned, the wand with the kelpie tail core. With heart tree wood harvested from the Starks’ weirdwood. Gone, burned in a fire.

His mind couldn’t latch onto a single spell.

But then Ramsay was pulling him back up, and he had time to draw in a painful gasp before he was pushed back in.

_I should have listened to Slytherin_ , he thought. But Robb…he followed Gryffindor, and Theon had always followed Robb. Gryffindor, who believed wizards and muggles could exist side by side. A fool’s belief. And he had been a fool.

His lungs burned. His mouth opened to draw in air, and water rushed in. He choked, feeling his entire body spasm, only vaguely aware that he was being pulled out again, laid out on the ground. A large hand on his chest, pushing down, until he vomited up the water he’d swallowed. His vision cleared, and Ramsay was standing over him. “Are you ready to confess?”

Theon wheezed, no words would come out.

Ramsay took this to mean no.

“Very well.” He helped Theon to sit up with one hand on his back and the other on his wrist. “You have very beautiful fingers,” he said, pausing to study Theon’s hand, so small and slender compared to his calloused ones. A man who worked with his hands instead of magic. “Indeed, you are a very beautiful boy.”

Theon tensed as Ramsay leaned in close and buried his nose in his unwashed hair, breathing deeply.

“There is another way out of here.” His voice was low and dangerous. “I would be willing to offer it to you—tell the bishop you overpowered me with your devil powers and escaped. All you would need to do...”The hand on Theon’s back drifted lower. “Nobody would know.”

Theon pulled away in revulsion. “Never,” he hissed.

Ramsay frowned. “No?” His grasp on Theon’s wrist became tight, bruising. “Then I guess we’ll just continue. For today, let’s start on those lovely fingers of yours.”

 

***

 

The sun had set, stealing what little light filtered into the dank little cell. Theon couldn’t even see his mangled hands stretched out before his face. There was a spell that would repair the bones that had been crushed with the thumbscrew, but what was the purpose? So Ramsay could come back and break them tomorrow?

He had come dangerously close to confessing, especially when Ramsay had brought out his branding implements. The burns on his back and thigh still smelled of smoldering flesh, and even the lightest rustle of clothing against them caused agonizing pain. The crucio curse was certainly a cruel spell, but these muggles…they could be much crueler still.

Perhaps he should take Ramsay up on his offer, allow him to do what he liked. Would Ramsay truly let him go, though? He doubted it. Slytherin had told him not to get himself caught, had tried to warn him against following Robb’s foolish mission of “protecting the muggles.”

“Muggles don’t need to be protected,” Slytherin had said, taking him aside on the day of graduation. He had mentored two generations of Greyjoys who’d passed through Hogwarts—Balon, Euron, Aeron, Victarion, Maron, Rodrik, Asha—but Theon had been his special case. A pureblood threatening to stray from the path of righteousness. “No, muggles are our enemies. They will show you no mercy, Theon, and you must show them none in return.”

A sudden chill filled the room. Theon laughed to himself as he felt all happiness drain from him, what little was left. The happy thoughts he’d been clinging to for four days. Private lessons with Salazar Slytherin, the greatest wizard at Hogwarts, making him the envy of his siblings. His mother, Alannys, teaching him to cast a patronus. Robb. Studying together with him and Jon in the Gryffindor common room, warm in front of the fireplace as winter ravaged everything outside.

He felt rather than saw the dementor, could hear the sucking of its breath. No doubt it was the very one he’d attempted to fend off several days earlier, when his patronus had alerted his presence to the muggles. He laughed as cold hands wrapped around his shoulders and pulled him up. He did not even bother to struggle. This was the easiest way out, now. The dementor’s kiss.

“I suppose you’ll go after the muggles next,” he said.

The dementor rasped through the hole in its face.

“I hope you start with Ramsay,” Theon said, “though I’m not sure he has much of a soul to satiate you.”


	14. (S)Mothering

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ashagreyjoy: 
> 
> _I see requests are now open so I'm gonna give you a really nasty one (for poor Theon I mean) so how about one where Theon accidentally cries out for his mother during a beating and gets mocked mercilessly by Ramsay and the boys for it? >:) _
> 
> >:) indeed

Rain beat against the windows. Storms were not uncommon on the Iron Islands, but this one held a particular fury to it. The lashing of the waves against the rocks seemed to shake the entirety of the castle. It felt like the Drowned God himself trying to reclaim them all. Theon wondered if he would end up like Maron, buried under a wall of rubble.

The adults were talking in hushed tones, occasionally shooting glances his way. They were greenlanders, the men who had killed his brothers and captured Pyke. They wanted him to come with them.

“I don’t understand,” he said, wiping his eyes to keep them dry. He wasn’t supposed to cry in front of Father. “Why do I have to go?”

“Oh, my baby.” Mother pulled him tight. She was crying, and even though Father hated it when she cried, he was more forgiving because she was a woman. “My baby, my baby.”

One of the greenlanders stepped forward. Clad in his armor, sword at his side, he reached out for Theon. “It’s time to go.”

“No,” Mother said, and her grip threatened to squeeze the life out of him. “No, you’ve taken my other sons, but you can’t have my baby.”

“It’s not for you to decide, woman.”

 Then Theon was being ripped out of her arms by rough, armored hands. He screamed and reached out for her. She screamed and reached out for him. But another of the greenlander men grabbed her and pulled her back.

“No! Let me go! Theon!” She thrashed in the man’s grip.  “Theon, my baby!”

A second man had to help hold her as well, but Theon was just a child and easy enough for one man to handle. He could only watch as Mother screamed and screamed, until the walls of Pyke echoed with her cries, like the raging of the storm outside. He reached out for her once more, unable to keep back his tears, even though Father was watching. “Mother!”

The greenlander hefted him into the air. The ground dropped away beneath him. And he was flung straight at the window. All around him, glass shattered, cutting his flesh into ribbons. He hung suspended in the storm, with the jagged rocks below him and the icy rain slicing into him.

“Mother!” he cried out for her one last time. “Mama!”

Theon awoke with a start, drenched in cold water from head to toe. It took him a moment to remember where he was—not on the stony shores of Pyke, but rather in a cell deep beneath the Dreadfort. It took him a moment longer to remember who he was—not Theon, but Reek. It rhymed with shriek.

When the ringing in his ears stopped, he recognized the sound of laughter all around him. He glanced over his shoulder to see Damon holding an empty bucket, and the other Boys, joining him in his mirth.

“Mama!” Skinner cackled. “Our Kraken Prince wants his mama!”

Reek hurried to pin his back to the wall. He should not have fallen asleep in such a vulnerable position. “No, I’m no Prince, no Kraken. I’m Reek.”

“Who is this ‘Mama?’” Ramsay was closer than the rest, squatting down nearer Reek’s level. He had a dark look on his face, like a man whose lover had cried out the wrong name during the heat of passion. “Why are you screaming out the names of strange women in your sleep, Reek?”

“I…don’t know, m’Lord,” Reek answered. “Reek has no mother.”

“No?” Ramsay grasped his face with one hand, fingers digging into his jaw. “That’s very sad, Reek. Is that why you cry out for this person named Mama?”

Reek didn’t answer. What answer _could_ he give?

“Mothers are wonderful things,” Ramsay went on. “They show you warmth and affection, and they love you no matter how bad you’ve been. I guess you could say… _I’m_ your mother.”

The other Boys snickered.

“Is that it, Reek? Am I your mother? Were you calling out for me in your sleep?”

Reek nodded meekly.

“Then come to Mama, sweetling.” Ramsay gathered him up in his arms, cradling him like an infant. “There, there, no fussing now.”

Reek tried to still himself as Ramsay pulled him against his chest. So big and solid. Warm. When he was always, always so cold down here. A hand supporting his head, running through his matted hair.

“There. There’s my good boy.”

Good boy? Reek was a good boy? He _wanted_ to be good for Ramsay. He tried so hard. He buried his face into Ramsay’s chest to smother his tears. His shoulders shook as he cried, and Ramsay patted his back gently. The Boys were howling with laughter now, but Reek didn’t care. Ramsay had said he was good.

“You’ll coddle him, Ramsay,” Luton said. “Once they learn to cry for attention, they never leave you alone.”

“Oh, my Reek would never cry for attention,” Ramsay said in a sickly sweet voice. He began bouncing Reek in an inept facsimile of rocking. “He must need something…but what?”

“Maybe he needs his nappy changed,” Damon offered.

“Or a nice teat to suck,” Skinner joined in.

“No, Master,” Reek said, clutching Ramsay’s shirt with his useless fingers. “I don’t need anything. I have everything I need.”

“What’s he saying?” Luton cupped a hand to his ear. “I can’t make out that baby talk.”

“You can’t? I can understand my baby just fine,” Ramsay said, turning himself around to properly face the Boys. “Go on, Reek, show them. Use your words, like a big boy.”

“I-I said…I have e-everything—”

“Naw, it’s all nonsense to me,” Luton interrupted.

“It’s alright, Rams,” Damon said. “Mothers sometimes hear all sorts of things in their babe’s babbling.”

“Ramsay is quite the proud mother,” Luton continued smugly. “He does make a quite fine and elegant lady, doesn’t he?” Ramsay’s face soured, and Luton must have realized he’d taken the joke too far. He quickly amended himself. “I mean, it’s a testament to a mother’s love to endure such an ugly babe.”

“Never seen an uglier one in my life,” Skinner agreed. “A mother’s love is truly unconditional.”

“Now, now.” Ramsay patted Reek’s back. “Don’t you listen to them. You’re my strong, handsome man.”

“Reek is not a man,” Reek protested.

Ramsay chuckled, and Reek could feel the rumbling in his bones.

“Just your Mama’s endearment, sweetling. Nothing more.”


	15. Showering

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phil's request: 
> 
>  
> 
> _Something I've wanted to see for a while is a fic where Ramsay brings his Reek into the shower with him to get him cleaned up (probably because Roose made him lets be real) and after washing him makes him give him a blowjob in the shower with the water running down all over poor Reek's head. I just liked that image haha._
> 
>  
> 
> So let it be written, so let it be done.

“Shower, Reek. See?” Ramsay opened the door and stepped into the stall. “Not going to kill you.”

 _And you_? Reek thought, wringing his hands. _Will you kill me_?

“Strip,” Ramsay commanded, and that, at least, was easy enough.

Reek stepped out of his pajama bottoms. The pant legs were dirty and frayed, and the elastic waistband was too loose for him. He toed them out of the way and left them bunched up by the bathroom door. He was left bare, standing on the bathmat, shifting from one foot to the other in an effort to stave off anxiety. He didn’t want to go into the shower. Ramsay didn’t want him to either. Not really. It was his father’s “suggestion”—“Get that creature of yours cleaned up. I don’t want to _smell_ him again.”

Ramsay looked him up and down, before nodding in approval. “Good. Now…shower.”

Reek shambled forward, one step.

“ _Now_ , Reek.”

Eyes on the floor, Reek lifted his foot up and over the threshold. Ramsay grabbed his arm to steady him and steer him onto the no-slip mat, which was nonetheless slippery with mildew and caked-on soap.

“Good.” Ramsay stroked his cheek. “Good.”

Reek shuddered.

“You’re cold. I’ll turn on the warm water.”

The water was, of course, freezing, and Reek yelped. He thought for sure that Ramsay meant to give him an ice-cold shower, but was surprised when the water actually began to warm up. And was even more surprised when Ramsay stepped back into the shower, now naked as well, and closed the door behind him.

He came up behind Reek and wrapped thick arms around him, pulling his little pet flush against him. He must have been able to feel every jagged edge of Reek’s backbone that way; Reek could certainly feel Ramsay against his ass, not quite hard yet. Despite this, Ramsay made no move to push him against the wall to fuck him. He just stood there, swaying back and forth ever so slightly as the water cascaded at their feet.

Finally, once steam had begun to form on the glass, Ramsay released his hold so that he could grab Reek by the hair and force his head into the stream. Reek, caught unaware, spluttered as water rushed into his eyes and nose. He might have struggled—completely on instinct—because when Ramsay pulled him back out, he looked displeased. “You need to wet your hair so I can wash it.”

Reek nodded. “Yes, thank you.” Always a good default, if a bit bland.

Ramsay ignored his bland platitude and reached for the shampoo on the rusty shower rack. Reek wondered if he would smell like Ramsay after this. Though Ramsay didn’t really smell like his hygiene products. He smelled like upturned earth and sweat and blood.

He worked the shampoo into a lather and began kneading his fingers through Reek’s hair. Reek’s brittle, matted hair. He caught tangles more times than Reek could count, but he was surprisingly gentle, surprisingly patient. Still, Reek could feel strands pulling free from his scalp with almost no resistance. He hoped he would not have large bald spots when all was said and done.

“You know, I think I’ve forgotten what your original hair color was.”

Reek stared at the mold in the grout on the wall. “Me neither.”

Ramsay chuckled. “Alright. Rinse.”

He allowed Reek to do it himself this time. Reek dunked his head into the stream and used his fingers to rinse away the remaining shampoo. He was amazed at how easily they could run through his hair now. There were still tangles, and long strands of colorless hair clung to his fingers afterwards, but it was a remarkable improvement even so.

They repeated this two more times, each time losing more hair but also more tangles. And the water was so warm and comforting on his body, even if it stung his open wounds and beat against his healing skin. Reek knew it was all more than he deserved.

“There,” Ramsay said. “That should about do it. Turn around.”

Reek did. The water hurt even more on the broad expanse of his back, but the warmth was still nice.

Ramsay looked him up and down, appraising him. “Good,” he said. “Or, good _enough_ , at least. Now. On your knees.”

Reek looked down. Ramsay had grown to almost full hardness while he’d been washing him. It wasn’t something Reek could understand, how Ramsay could get so aroused by touching and looking at Reek’s wasted body. If it had been before, maybe, when people had _liked_ looking at him, when people had _wanted_ to touch him. He remembered the flings, the flirting and drinking and laughter. Those days were behind him. He’d been wild and free, reckless. He needed someone to take him by the hand, roughly if need be, and show him what to do. He didn’t understand what Ramsay showed him sometimes, but that was the beauty. He didn’t _need_ to understand.

He sank to his knees. The mat was spongy and slick under him, and the water cascaded over his head, down his face and back. The drain was clogged with clumps of his hair, and the water was beginning to back up. They probably wouldn’t have much hot water left. He licked his chapped lips, then obediently took Ramsay into his mouth.

Ramsay groaned and put a stabilizing hand on Reek’s head. “You’re getting good at that,” he said. “Taking it all in one go.”

Reek couldn’t respond, but he cast his eyes up to show Ramsay that he appreciated the praise.

“Well?”

Reek began bobbing his head. The water was new, but this was familiar. He tried to focus on the familiar way Ramsay’s cock slammed against the back of his throat and not on the way rivulets of water slid down his face and into his half-open mouth. On the salty taste of Ramsay’s flesh and not the iron taste of the city water, mixed with the Boltons’ water softener.

The shower continued to beat down on him from overhead. He couldn’t tell what was water and what was drool dribbling down his chin. It stung in his eyes and nose. He needed to breathe, but he didn’t dare. _I won’t pull back_ , Reek vowed. _I won’t stop until he tells me to_.

Ramsay stroked his head, fingers running cleanly through his hair. Reek leaned into it, taking Ramsay deeper.

_I won’t even breathe until he tells me to._


	16. Tending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zip said: 
> 
> _I usually hate show!verse but recently I've been searching for a Myranda/Theon fic everywhere so I thought I'd request it from you if you don't mind! I'd like it to be something like...Myranda has to look after Reek for a day while Ramsay's away, maybe Ramsay told her to bathe him or just generally look out for him so no one decides to take this chance to be extra cruel to his pet while he's away. And basically Myranda decides to have a little fun with Theon...(well fun for her, more like torment for him)_
> 
>  
> 
> I guess this is an appropriate one-shot following Ramsay's touching eulogy last night.

“Oh, Re~ek.”

Myranda loved to use her sweetest voice and watch the way he flinched. He never disappointed.

“Reek, you were with a lot of women,” she said, flipping her hair over her shoulder as she ran a brush through it. She loved this, sitting at Ramsay’s dresser, using the ivory brush on her hair, like a real lady waiting for her lord husband’s return. “I mean, before you…”

Reek cringed in the corner.

“I imagine you must have had _some_ skill. Women talk after all. And as much as men like to think otherwise, cock size alone doesn’t cut it.” Her hair ran like water through the teeth of the brush. “What I’m asking is…all these other women you fucked…did you ever use your mouth on them?”

She could see his face in the mirror and the way his eyes widened. “Y-yes, sometimes.”

“Call me m’Lady, Reek.”

“Yes, m’Lady.”

She frowned. The way he slurred his words, it sounded like he was making fun of her.

“I did sometimes use my lips and t-tongue.”

“I see.” Myranda set the brush down and turned on the stool to face him. “And did they enjoy that, when you did it to them?”

Reek, hunched in the corner like a spider, traced along the floor with his fingertip. “They did, m’Lady. Mostly. S-someone taught me early on…how to do it properly.”

Myranda smirked. “Would you show me?”

Reek’s head bobbed up at the tone in her voice. “M’Lady?”

“I’m sorry, I suppose that was a question.” She stood and went to the bed, hiking up her skirts. “Rather, I’m ordering you to show me how a man properly pleasures a woman with his tongue.”

“Reek is no man.”

“No, but that’s why I’m not asking you to show me with your cock.” She sprawled out on the bed, staring up at the elaborate headboard. There were still scratches all along the wood, though she could no longer tell which were hers and which were Ramsay’s. “I’m telling you to put your tongue to good use, and I’m telling you to do it now.”

She heard Reek shuffle in the corner. “Ramsay—”

“Ramsay left me in charge of you,” she interrupted. “Shall I tell him that you were disobedient while he was away?”

That got him moving, as quickly as he could move. He appeared at the end of the bed, shivering and shuddering and not looking her in the eye at all. Like a good, submissive puppy. She pulled her skirts up around her waist. Somehow, revealing herself to him didn’t feel shameful. It was much different when you were the one in control. Was this why men were so quick to take their cocks out to show off?

“On the bed, Reek.”

Reek began to crawl onto the bed, whimpering like an injured dog. His fowl stench followed him.

“Closer.”

He inched his way up to the place between her legs and hovered over it for a while on his hands and knees. She knew he was looking at it, remembering. Did he feel a phantom stirring in his loins? She felt the first stirrings herself, watching him.

“You know what Ramsay says about teeth,” she said as he began to lower his head. He glanced up, uncertain. “It goes doubly for me.”

He nodded and bent to his task.

She gasped at the first swipe of his tongue against her, then managed to hold in any further noises as he worked. She would not give him the satisfaction of knowing how he was doing. This was not about his satisfaction.

She did arch her back when he found her center, prodding gently and then laving slowly up and down. Her fists clutched at the bed sheets, and she stilled the curling of her toes. _Will he be able to bring me to finish_? she wondered. Ramsay would be cross, if he knew. _He_ had have never been able to bring her to finish, the few times he had done this for her. She bit her bottom lip and giggled to think of keeping this from him.

Or maybe she’d flaunt it. The way he flaunted the other girls in front of her. Those bitches, with their coy smiles, smiling at Ramsay, inviting him. True, they didn’t realize _what_ they were inviting until it was too late, but even when he allowed her the satisfaction of the final blow—she’d honed her archery skills on the girls Ramsay took on his hunts—it still hurt. Somewhere she couldn’t quite place. When those girls smiled at him, and he smiled back.

 _Oh, I won’t tell him_ , she thought as Reek did something with his tongue. _If Ramsay doesn’t kill him for it, he will surely cut out Reek’s tongue. And that would be a shame._

“M’Lady?” Reek stopped. Why had Reek stopped? “Are you alright? You were…talking to yourself.”

“I’m fine, Reek,” she snapped, lifting a leg to kick him in the jaw. “Now get back to work.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry I haven't been replying to comments! I've been drive-by posting and haven't had much time to reply.
> 
> Next update will be Saturday.


	17. Watching

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Emily's prompt: 
> 
> _In class today we watched the movie Rear Window but all I could think of was Thramsay._
> 
> I went with Scenario One from the three options provided (it was so hard to choose!) In the end, I decided this one would give me a chance to work with characters I don't normally write.
> 
> _Bran is confined to a wheelchair and he watches into the apartment windows across from his apartment. He peers into his across neighbor's, Ramsay's, and watches him do serial killer things. No one believes Bran. And one day Ramsay brings home a victim who he doesn't kill (Theon)._

“Bran, your friends are here.”

Bran heard his mother call from the hallway, heard the footsteps nearing his bedroom door, and hurried to hide the binoculars. Not fast enough. Jojen came in and saw him trying to shove them back on his bookshelf. “Are you spying on your neighbors again?” he asked, yanking the binoculars out of his hands and going to the window himself. “So, what’s the news?”

“You two are a couple of pervs, you know that?” Meera sighed, dropping her book bag next to the door.

Jojen ignored him and adjusted the focus on the binoculars. “I see Mr. Martell has some hot, young thing at his place. Ah, and Widow Arryn has the dinner table set again. Another date with Mr. Creepy?”

Bran wheeled his chair up behind him. “Bolton brought another one home last night,” he said, not in the mood for the usual rundown.

“You really like to keep tabs on that guy’s one-night stands, don’t you?”

“Perv,” Meera repeated, but she came to join them as well.

“It’s not like that,” Bran insisted. “It’s just…he brings home a new girl, like, once a week. I’ve been keeping track.” He reached for his desk drawer and pulled out his log, full of descriptions of the girls he’d seen going into Bolton’s apartment. Belatedly, he realized this might not be the best way to convince Meera he wasn’t a pervert. “I check them against missing persons reports in the paper, that’s why I do it.”

“Missing persons?”

“I’ve never seen one girl, not one, come back out again. I tried. Once I sat there all night, but the girl never came out.”

He saw the way Meera looked to Jojen. It was the look shared between two sane people when the third was beginning to frighten them.

“He thinks Bolton’s murdering them and burying their bodies in the flowerbeds,” Jojen explained.

“Well?” Meera gestured to his notebook. “Have you found any matches with missing persons?”

“No,” Bran admitted. “I think they’re mostly…um, prostitutes and stuff like that.”

“I’ve seen one or two,” Jojen piped up. “I’d have to agree.”

Meera shook her head.

“He brought another one home last night,” Bran said, picking up where he’d been interrupted. “A guy.”

“A guy?” Meera asked.

“A man.”

“A manwhore?” Jojen asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

Jojen, still with the binoculars in hand, shrugged. “I mean, I guess if the guy wants to experiment…”

“But here’s the thing.” Bran took the binoculars and pointed them as best he could to Bolton’s bedroom window. It was an unseasonably hot day, so the blinds were up and the window open. You could see the bed and, hopefully, the body sprawled across it. “He’s still there.”

Jojen was silent for a moment. “Maybe he’s stopped playing the field and got himself a boyfriend?”

“The guy hasn’t woken up all day.”

“He’s alive. I can see him breathing.”

“I think he’s been drugged.”

“On what grounds? The fact that he’s not awake yet?” Jojen looked up from the binoculars to glance at his watch. “It’s only one o’clock. Maybe he likes to sleep in late.”

“He hasn’t _moved_ all day,” Bran said. “Like, even an inch.”

“If you think something illegal is being done,” Meera interrupted, sounding more serious than Jojen, at least, “you should call the police.”

“And tell them what? What I just told you two? You’re not exactly convinced, are you? And it’s not like I have evidence.”

“You know what?” Meera said, snatching the binoculars out of Jojen’s hand and setting them up high on the shelf where neither of the boys could reach it. “I think this whole watching people thing is beyond creepy. I get that you’re dealing with a sense of decreased mobility—”

Bran shot her a look up from his wheelchair.

“—but watching your neighbors’ sex antics isn’t healthy. I think all three of us should get out of here. Let’s practice shooting cans in the empty lot down the street. You were getting pretty good at it, last time.”

“Yeah, before my accident,” Bran sulked.

“You just need to keep practicing. I brought an extra—”

“He’s waking up,” Jojen said.

Meera snatched the binoculars and pushed her way to the window. Bran would have called her out on this hypocritical behavior, but she’d really been so supportive of him since his accident. Her and Jojen both. They were probably the only thing keeping him from flinging himself out his third-story window. Besides, he wanted to see what was happening too.

As he wheeled up beside her, he could make out the vague shapes through Bolton’s open window. “What’s going on?” he asked.

Meera was quiet for a moment. “He’s looking around…”

Then they all heard it, the shrill scream. Meera jumped and dropped the binoculars. They all watched on in horror as Bolton appeared in the bedroom and stalked to the bed where the half-naked man lay sprawled out, screaming. Even with the distance separating the two apartment buildings, Bran could still clearly make out the violent movement as Bolton grabbed the man’s head and slammed it into the headboard.

The man fought back and continued to scream as Bolton climbed on top of him.

“Quick!” Meera said. “Someone call the cops!”

Jojen was the quickest, reaching for the cellphone in his jacket. He unlocked the screen and started dialing as Bran reached for the binoculars. Zoomed in, he could see the way Bolton’s fist collided with the man’s face again and again, until the screaming stopped and the man took to shielding his face from the blows.

“Hello? Police?” Jojen’s voice was steady. “I’d like to report an assault.”

Bolton pried the man’s hands away.

“No, I’m at my friend’s house. It’s his neighbors. I’m watching it right now.”

“What’s happening?” Meera hissed urgently.

“They’re talking,” Bran hissed back, so the operator wouldn’t hear. “Whatever Bolton’s saying, the guy looks like he doesn’t want to fight anymore.”

“Um, we’re at apartment three-oh-four at Ten Wolfwoods Way North,” Jojen recited into the phone. “The apartment across the way is at the corner of the building, third floor. The name is Bolton.”

Bolton delivered one last, harsh cuff to the man’s face before climbing off him. The guy remained curled in on himself and did not attempt to get up or scream.

“Thank you.” The phone blipped as Jojen hung up. “They’re on their way.”

“ _Now_ do you believe me?”

“I believe we just saw something very fucked up,” Jojen agreed.

Bolton reached for something under the bed. Bran focused in on it: two sets of fuzzy handcuffs and a ball gag? The man made no attempts to fight back or escape as Bolton cuffed his hands to either bedpost. In fact, he smiled, almost nervously when Bolton held up the ball gag, and even opened his mouth so it could be shoved in and latched around the back of his head.

Bran was stunned. Maybe they had read the situation wrong after all? Maybe it was just some bizarre role-playing between them, something meant for the privacy of the bedroom. It didn’t seem possible. The man’s face was a mess of very real blood, and they’d all heard his screaming. But why wasn’t he struggling now? Especially when Bolton got up and left him?

All three voyeurs stood at the windowsill, waiting with bated breath for Bolton to return. And he did, a scant thirty seconds later, holding something _else_ in his hands. Meera elbowed Bran, but he was already way ahead of her. He tunneled in on the object. And felt his gut flip.

“That’s…a switchblade,” he said.

 Meera’s hand gripped tightly onto Bran’s shoulder. “He’s not really gonna…”

Bolton crawled onto the bed, and now the guy was looking panicked again. He kicked out with his free feet, but Bolton simply grabbed his ankles and pinned them under his thighs. The knife flashed through the air so that Meera and Jojen could see it, even without the binoculars, judging from Meera’s horrified gasp. A ribbon of red appeared on the guy’s chest, from shoulder to navel.

“Shit!” Bran hissed. “He really is.”

“We have to do something,” Meera cried.

“The cops are on the way,” Jojen said, with a faraway look in his eye, “but they won’t get here in time. Not if we don’t find a way to stall.”

Bran and Meera looked at Jojen.

“You have a hand mirror?” he asked.

“Sansa does, yeah.”

“Go get it. We’ll use it to flash light into his eyes.”

Bran’s hands went for the wheels of his chair, but Meera spoke up first. “No, I’ve got something better.” She went to the door where she’d dropped her book bag and pulled out her slingshot, the one she’d been using to teach Bran how to shoot cans.

Bran grinned. “You think you can hit him from here?”

“I can do fifteen meters with accuracy. After that, it’s kind of a crapshoot.” She held it out, pulled back the strap, and looked down the sight. “I can hit the broadside of a barn from this distance.”

“Better hurry up,” Jojen said, bringing their attention back to the matter at hand. Bolton had carved another long gash along the man’s chest, creating a crooked X.

Meera set her jaw and loaded a pebble into her slingshot.

“You need the binoculars?”

“No.” She pulled the strap back and closed one eye as she focused in on her target. “I’ve got this.”

With shaking hands, Bran brought the binoculars back to his eyes. He could make out the blood dribbling down the man’s chest, and the tears in his eyes as Bolton grabbed him by the throat. No way this was kinky play.

Bran had been watching Bolton for weeks now, ever since he’d discovered the pattern in his neighbor’s behavior: Girl goes in, girl doesn’t come out. He’d been chastised by almost everyone when he tried to tell them before. But the moment Meera loosed her sling, followed a split-second later by the shattering of the window pane across the way, he knew that he had been right. The way Bolton’s head snapped up at the sound, the way his eyes looked around wildly for the source of it…he looked like someone who had been caught. And when his eyes finally found the Starks’ apartment, Bran waved to him to let him know, yes, we see you, we see what you’re doing in there. The look of rage that contorted Bolton’s features was vindicating.

Bolton dropped the knife and scuffled off the bed. And disappeared out the door.

The man on the bed, eyes wide, looked around in confusion. He didn’t seem to understand what had happened. Had all the girls Bran had seen going in had met a similar fate, tied to the bed and slashed into bloody ribbons. Bran wished they could send him a message, that he wasn’t alone and that someone was coming for him shortly.

“Um, I think he’s coming for us.”

Bran dropped the binoculars at the realization and turned to Jojen. “Shit,” he said. Yeah, Bolton had left in a hurry, and with murderous intent on his face. He had seen their window, so he knew what apartment they were watching from. Which meant there was currently a psychopath on a direct line to their location.

“We need to get out of here,” Bran said.

“Don’t you think this would be the safest place to be, holed up in here?” Meera asked. “It’s not like he can get in.”

All three of them froze when they heard a knock on the front door. Before Bran could call out not to open it, he heard his mother’s footsteps, followed by a tentative, “Hello? Can I help you?”

“Your son,” a dark voice said. It sent shivers up Bran’s spine—the part he could still feel, at any rate. “The one whose room is on the corner…I need to speak with him.”

“Bran?” Catelyn asked. Then she sighed with annoyance. “Why? What’s he done now?”

“Mom!” Bran broke for the bedroom door. “Don’t let him in! He’s a murderer!”

“Bran, what nonsense—?”

Bran threw the door open in time to see Bolton grab his mother by the hair and hold his switchblade against her throat. She gasped, but to her credit did not scream. That would surely have forced Bolton to use his weapon.

“Bran, honey,” she said, breath coming fast, “get back in your room.”

“No.” Bolton yanked her hair to bare more of her throat. “Get out here. And your two friends, too. Who else is home?”

“No one,” Catelyn said.

“No one,” Bran agreed. “Just us.”

“Sure?” Bolton asked with a grin. “Not even your pretty sister?”

Bran gripped the armrests of his chair. “She’s at Jeyne Poole’s house.”

“Who the fuck is Jeyne Poole?” Bolton spat. “Never mind. I want everyone in the living room. Now!” He craned his neck, as if searching for signs of Meera and Jojen. “You don’t get out here in five seconds, I’ll slit this bitch’s throat. I mean it!”

Bran raised his hands. “We already called the cops. They’re on their way.”

Bolton gritted his teeth. “You have no idea what you’ve gotten into, little boy.”

“I saw what you were doing to that man, and I can guess what you did with those women you’ve been bringing home.”

“You little shit! How long have you been watching me?” Bolton gave another yank on Catelyn’s hair and dug the knife into her neck. She gasped, but was able to get her footing again. A drop of blood slid down her throat. “You didn’t see anything. And when the cops show up, you’re going to tell them that we had a discussion. You’re young, so you misunderstood what you were looking at. Just some rough play between two consenting adults. My little fuckboy will back you up on this.”

Bran wanted to tell him to go fuck himself. If it were just him, he probably would. But there was blood on his mother’s neck, and Meera and Jojen were still here. He’d already been dangerously reckless by getting them involved. Instead, he nodded. “I’ll tell them whatever you want. Can you let my mother go now?”

“The other two brats,” Bolton said. “Get them out here. They need to be part of this too.”

Bran nodded again. “Jojen,” he called over his shoulder, “Meera, it’s okay. You can come out n—”

The door swung outwards with a slam. Everything happened so fast. Bran heard the snap of Meera’s slingshot, then his mother’s scream. Both she and Bolton collapsed to the floor. There was blood everywhere.

“Mom!” Bran went to her and, frustrated by his chair, threw himself to the ground and crawled the rest of the way to her side. “Mom!” he called again, reached out for her.

She reached out for him with trembling hands. There was a long cut on her neck where Bolton’s knife had slipped, but from the way it was bleeding, it had barely just grazed the skin. Her grip as her hand found his was strong, and she smiled reassuringly. “I’m alright, baby. It’s alright.”

“Gods, I’m so sorry, Mrs. Stark.” Meera was kneeling next to them now, trying to help the both of them up. “I just…I saw my shot and I took it.”

“You were protecting my boy.” Catelyn’s hand brushed Meera’s face, and Bran could see wetness on her cheeks. “Thank you.” As she got to her feet, she cast a glance at Bolton’s prone form. It turned out Meera hadn’t been lying about being a dead shot. She’d hit him right between the eyes.

Bran laughed through a hiccupping sob. In the distance, he could hear police sirens.


	18. Post-Recording

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feral_Fic_Writer: 
> 
> _As much as I wanted Theon rescued, safe and comforted, a twisted part of my imagination envisions Theon recovered and recovering in a plush mental health facility. His family concerned about why he isn't recovering as quickly as they'd hoped despite the best treatment possible._
> 
> _What they don't know is one of the hospital orderlies, maybe Theon's personal attendant, was one of Ramsay's video subscribers, recognized him, and has been carrying out his own little behavioral program with his ward at night when all's locked up and the regular staff have all gone home._
> 
> Not tagging the POV characters. It's a surprise. ;P
> 
> Dedicated to everyone who asked for a follow-up to [Recording](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6175846/chapters/14150299) and [Rerecording](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6175846/chapters/14979676).

The patient in Room 203 was not getting any better. Which wasn’t too shocking. Despite the hospital’s proclamations of having the best doctors, best staff, best medical equipment, best, best, best, there were some who would never recover. They were too far gone, having retreated into themselves rather than face a world that had hurt them so terribly.

Mirri Maz Durr could understand the desire. She knew what life was worth once everything else had been stripped away. But that wasn’t what was wrong with the patient in Room 203. The doctors and nurses were too blind to see, and the other orderlies looked the other way. But Mirri, she looked straight at what was in front of her and saw.

She had been working at this same hospital for four years. Four years of washing bedsheets, mopping floors, scrubbing toilets, and emptying bedpans. The irony was, of course, that she herself had been a doctor, back in the old country. She’d had her own clinic, one that served hundreds of people from the neighboring villages. She had personally set bones, stitched wounds, and prescribed medicine for over thirty years before the war came. And yet here she was a housekeeper, regarded as no higher than the garbage she hauled to the dumpsters out back on a nightly basis.

That did not mean that she had left her life as a medicine woman behind. She knew the telltale signs of illness, both of the body and of the mind. And more. She knew the look on a person’s face when they had been through great suffering. She had seen it reflected in so many faces around her, and she saw it reflected in 203’s face.

His case had made headlines news. Not that she read the Westerosi papers, but she had seen it in on the local news. “House of Horrors,” they were calling it. Torture, rape, mutilation, something about the internet. Mirri did not know the specifics and had not bothered to look for them. The man responsible had been arrested , one less of his kind to bring suffering to this world.

She knew suffering, and not just from her time as a physician. After all, she’d seen the men who’d come into her village, with their machetes and their machine guns. Cutting down pregnant women and child. Raping, pillaging. The manic gleam in their eyes. She knew the look on a person’s face when they enjoyed the suffering of others. The same look she’d seen reflected on Rorge’s face.

She didn’t know his last name, and didn’t care to. She also didn’t know why he’d chosen this line of work, though she knew why he’d been hired. He was a hulking brute of a man who could restrain patients with ease. Mirri had seen him without his surgical mask only a handful of times. He maintained that he’d lost the better part of his nose in an accident as a boy, but as a physician, Mirri knew better; the scars were far too recent to be from childhood.

He was said to be a miracle-worker, because he was the only orderly that could get their most violent patient—a man everyone only ever called “Biter”—to come down from one of his frenzies. It was this reputation as a “miracle-worker” that landed him the role of personal attendant to the patient in Room 203.

It seemed to work, too. No one else could get 203 to eat. He could hardly feed himself, not only because he’d lost several fingers important for holding silverware, but also because his hands trembled too terribly to hold anything steady. But somehow, Rorge coaxed him to eat the trays of applesauce and pudding the nurses brought in each day. This was, they said, another miracle.

Of course, in her past life, people had often called Mirri a miracle-worker as well. People often ascribed miracles to things they didn’t understand or want to look too closely at.

But Mirri saw. Rorge was no miracle-worker. She suspected since she’d first laid eyes on him, dressed in his clean, new orderly uniform as the overseer showed him the ropes of the job. But she knew, for certain, the first time she heard him say that word to 203. It was not a word she’d been familiar with, so she asked Irri, another girl from housekeeping who knew the Westerosi language better.

“What does it mean?” Mirri asked casually. “Reek?”

Irri stopped scrubbing the toilet. “It means something that does not smell very nice. Like the toilet.” She gestured with her brush.

“It is not a thing to call a person, then,” Mirri observed, though she supposed this could be construed as a question.

“Is that where you heard it?” Irri sat back on her haunches and wiped the sweat from her brow. She was a young woman and not given to this sort of work, Mirri guessed. “Is it the man in Room 203? Is that why you ask?”

Mirri nodded.

“That was the name the man who had him gave,” Irri said, somewhat awkwardly. Mirri didn’t understand. “When I was taken into slavery,” Irri continued, seeing her confusion, “the man who took me would not call me by name. He said that slaves did not need names. I was ‘you or ‘girl,’ sometimes even ‘filth.’” She shot a meaningful look at Mirri before taking up her scrub brush again. “They say slavery is illegal in Westeros, but that does not mean it does not exist.”

Mirri understood. Rorge was like the man who had been arrested—Bolted? Was that his name? Again, not something she cared to know, but she minded this information, and watched and listened. At night, when most of the patients were asleep and the doctors had gone home and only a handful of nurses and orderlies remained. And, of course, the housekeepers, who worked most diligently in the shadows, where more important people wouldn’t have to see them.

That night, she was sweeping in the hallway outside Room 203. Silent and unnoticed. And listening. She didn’t understand all the words, but she could connect dots.

“Reek,” Rorge’s rasping voice said, “don’t you ever miss your webcame days? Don’t you ever get tired of being tucked away in this little hospital? You know your face belongs where everyone can see it. Filthy, covered in shit.” Mirri knew swear words. It was perhaps the first thing you picked up on when learning a new language. “Tears. That’s what I liked to watch. The way you cried.”

Mirri peered around the doorway and saw Rorge lean in close to lick 203’s cheek. The hole where he nose had once been bumped against 203’s temple.

“You probably don’t remember me. I was MadDog. I didn’t participate in the forums much. I liked to watch, mostly. But I did suggest your severed cock be turned into a cunt, but everyone seemed to think that wasn’t really realistic. Still, would have been fun, eh?”

230 whimpered. He never talked. Or if he did, Mirri had never heard it. Instead he made little noises of distress, but there was definitely something panicked about this one. It was the whimpering of a patient before a painful surgery, the type Mirri used to ease with reassurances of, “This won’t hurt a bit.” That was almost always a lie.

“Too bad the pigs had to come and spoil all our fun.” Pigs? Mirri made a note to ask Irri about that later. “But I guess it did bring us together. I was your biggest fan, Reek. I watched every video. I’ve seen every part of you. You’ve got nothing left to hide from me.”

Another small whimper.

“No? You’re saying there is still something you can hold onto.” Rorge laughed. “In that case, maybe I think you’ve been running a fever. Let’s take your temperature, Reek.” He pulled the patient out of his wheelchair and lifted him like a child bride to the bed, where he laid him out of his stomach.

Mirri watched as the loose-fitting hospital pants were pulled down to reveal a body riddled with scar tissue. She had never seen anyone outside of a war zone with so much damage. _Deliberate_ damage. Her medical instincts took over and her finger twitched around the handle of her broom. Thirty years of practicing medicine and it was always a strange sensation, the simultaneous sense of intimacy and detachment. Intimacy as you healed your patient; detachment as you pulled away from the invasiveness of the situation.

There was no detachment on Rorge’s face as he jammed the rectal thermometer in. 203 gave a shrill, high-pitched whine, the closest she’d ever heard to words from him. Rorge wasn’t watching the thermometer at all; he didn’t care what his patient’s temperature was. As an orderly, he shouldn’t even be handling the medical equipment, not in this case. Mirri could report him for it, but it wouldn’t matter. Even if he were fired, he would be hired on somewhere else.

“You like the feeling of something up there, don’t you?” he said, in that rasping way he had. “You used to beg so sweetly for your old master to fill you up. I watched you. Every time.” He wiggled the end of the thermometer around, and 203 yelped.  “Of course, something this small, I bet you can hardly feel it at all. Trust me, I’d love to give you my cock, sweetheart, but the nurses would probably notice that. You’d be torn straight in two when they came to check on you in the morning.”

He chuckled and Mirri bit her lip. Such a foul man.

“I think I’ll bring a screwdriver one of these days,” he said as his hand slid up and down the bony expanse of 203’s back. “Bigger than a thermometer, but small enough not to do too much noticeable damage. If I’m careful.” His hand came back down, and he yanked the thermometer out, pulling another whimper from 203. “I have to be so careful with you, don’t I, Reek?”

203 buried his face in the pillow. Mirri could hear his muffled sobbing from out in the hallway.

“Oh, stop it,” Rorge said, setting the thermometer on the tray where patients were supposed to take their meals. Mirri could definitely report him, but, again, to what end? “I’m going to take my coffee break. You just stay right there. Got it?”

He slapped 203’s behind. 203 gasped into the pillow.

“Good.”

Mirri hid behind the door as Rorge sauntered out, looked up and down the hall, and pulled his surgical mask back on. He was so sure he was alone, because even just another glance would have revealed Mirri’s unattended broom leaning against the wall. Instead, he trotted off in the direction of the break room, where he kept his alcohol supply in a bottle disguised as an energy drink. Mirri didn’t understand how nobody could smell it on him after he came back from his frequent “breaks.” Another instance of turning a blind eye

Once he was gone, she slipped into Room 203. 203 himself was still sobbing into the pillow, but lifted his head in alarm when he heard Mirri approach.

“It’s alright,” she said in her broken Westerosi. “I will not hurt you.” To prove it, she grabbed the hem of his pants and pulled them up, then helped him roll onto his side.

He stared up at her with big eyes. His lips moved. And words came out. “You’re…”

She cocked her head. This was new.

He was having trouble speaking. She couldn’t make out the next word.

“What?” She leaned in closer.

He looked frustrated but tried again. “An-gel,” he said.

“Angel?” she repeated. She knew that word. A divine being.

“That’s what they call you.” He reached one trembling arm out for her. She took his hand, little more than a mangled stump. “Angel of Mercy. That’s…you…isn’t it?” He looked so hopeful.

Ah, so the others talked about that. She knew they were suspicious of her, but she was nothing if not meticulous in her work. No one had caught her yet.

203 opened his mouth. Couldn’t seem to find his voice. Licked his dry lips and tried again. “Please.”

She was still for a moment. There was no mistaking his request.

“Do you know what you’re asking?”

He nodded. “Please. I just want…to end.”

She brushed the hair from his face. “Everything ends.”

“I can’t wait…that long.”

She nodded. “I understand.” She patted his hand. “I will take care of it.”

 

***

 

“Did you hear about Rorge?”

“I heard they found him in the parking lot last night. Any idea what happened?”

“They’re saying it was alcohol poisoning.”

“ _No_. Rorge wasn’t a drinker, was he?”

“A total booze hound. Always taking nips between shifts. All the nurses knew it but looked the other way.”

“Tch. Such a shame. And he was doing such good work, too.”

Mirri smiled to herself as she pushed her housekeeping cart down the hall. Irri shot her a guarded look. No doubt she suspected what had happened, but she wouldn’t say anything. She never had before.

Mirri knocked on Room 203. “Housekeeping.”

203 was in his wheelchair, staring out the window onto the lush gardens of the facility. He looked over his shoulder when she entered, appearing completely bewildered. No doubt news of his attendant’s untimely death had made it back to him by now.

“Good day.” Mirri began pulling his sheets off the bed and piling them into her cart.

“You…?”

“I took care of it,” she answered before he could finish.

“I didn’t…want…”

“You wanted it to end.” She started pulling the pillows out of their cases. The top one was stiff from dried tears. “I ended it.”

“I thought…”

“I ended it,” she repeated.

He was silent. Slowly, with what maneuverability he had, he turned the wheelchair around to face her. “But what if…another comes?”

“Then I will end it again.” She reached under her cart for the new sheets, freshly pressed and out of the dryer. She spread it out over the bed. He seemed entranced by the way it settled on the mattress, light and weightless and brilliantly clean. “As I said, everything ends.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who requested and left prompts. This series wouldn't exist without you!
> 
> And thank to everyone else for reading.
> 
> <3 VagrantWriter

**Author's Note:**

> Requests now closed.


End file.
